


it all comes down to you

by annabeth_writes



Series: Birthday Month Celebration 2019 [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Arranged Marriage, Conflict, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Strangers to Lovers, different first meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-06 22:12:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 36,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19071721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabeth_writes/pseuds/annabeth_writes
Summary: Sansa regains her true identity in the Vale in time to answer the summons of a new queen, traveling to King's Landing only to find herself in yet another arranged marriage. This time, her betrothal is to the queen's nephew and her own cousin, the newly legitimized Targaryen prince who was raised across the Narrow Sea with his aunt. Though there is animosity between them to begin with, Sansa finds herself slowly drawn in the more time she spends with Prince Jon as they travel north to reclaim her home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first of four fics I have planned as part of my birthday month celebration! You can read all about it [here](https://snowsinthenorth.tumblr.com/post/185271972000/ive-been-thinking-about-what-i-want-to-do-for-my).
> 
> There will be one chapter for this fic every day for the next week, with the last one coming on Saturday, so you won't have to wait long to see what happens! I hope that you all like what I have so far!
> 
> Title: All Comes Down (To You) - Bandit Heart

King’s Landing looked far different from what she remembered, stripped of all Lannister and Baratheon influence. Red and black were the colors that littered the ramparts and any lions or stags had been chipped away from stone, bound to be replaced by three-headed dragons. Yet the stench of the city remained, stinging at her senses as she rode from the Gate of the Gods directly to the Red Keep, a company of Vale guards at her back. It was apprehension that set her heart to racing and fear that made her stomach churn.

The Vale offered support to Daenerys in her quest to root out and defeat the Lannisters, convinced to do so by the girl they thought to be the bastard daughter of the former Lord Protector of their lands. Alayne Stone convinced all to give supplies and soldiers to the Targaryen queen, knowing that she would win and knowing that abstaining from the war would be equal in Daenerys’ eyes to fighting against her. When all was said and done, Sansa Stark stripped the dye from her hair and revealed her true name. Only then did she receive a summons to the capital

Now here she was, riding through the gates of the one place she hoped never to see again, knowing exactly what awaited her. There was little of her time at the Red Keep that she could recall fondly. Even the memories from before her father’s arrest and education were poisoned by Joffrey, the boy she once thought to be her golden prince. Yet she kept her head high and her shoulders straight once she dismounted from her horse, trying her best to ignore the roars and screeches she could hear in the distance.

“My lady.”

The familiar voice reached her ears and brought her whirling around, her attention falling upon the man that she once wed. Tyrion looked much the same, though older than before. There was an ease to his disposition that she’d never seen before, even with all his japes and cleverness that seemed to carry him through the day, along with copious amounts of wine. He seemed perfectly sober at the moment, to her surprise. Perhaps this was simply Tyrion without the constant presence of Cersei and Tywin haunting his steps.

“My lord,” she said, offering him a curtsy.

“The years have made you more lovely, little wife,” he said with a twinkle in his eye, reaching out to take her hand.

Sansa might have blinked twice at his words if she did not know the true reason for her summons to King’s Landing. It would not be Tyrion Lannister whose cloak draped about her shoulders when all was said and done. Daenerys Targaryen had quite a different fate in mind for her, of that she had little doubt.

“You are too kind, Lord Tyrion,” Sansa said as he brushed a kiss over the back of her hand.

“And you are far from the simpleton my sister thought you to be, are you not?” he asked, squeezing her hand lightly before releasing it. “Convincing the Vale to offer our queen their support cannot have been easy, particularly when no one knew who you truly were.”

“A gesture of goodwill,” Sansa said, knowing that he would read the underlying meaning in her words.

She helped Daenerys Targaryen win the throne. The least the queen could offer her was the North, yet Daenerys could not even manage that without giving herself a foothold there. A safeguard against future rebellions, as whispers of unrest in the northern lands reached far and wide.

“Queen Daenerys is most eager to meet you,” Tyrion said, gesturing towards the Great Hall.

Sansa looked to the structure, wishing with every fiber of her being that she did not have to step foot within it. Yet there was little choice. She ignored the curious looks from every direction as she nodded her head, falling into step with Tyrion.

“It was your idea, wasn’t it?” Sansa asked as they walked.

Tyrion let out a questioning noise that she didn’t believe for a moment. He knew exactly what she spoke of, for it was all too obvious.

“It’s the same reason your father wed me to you,” she said, lifting her skirts from the ground as they ascended the steps. “I’m the key to the North once more.”

“Would you rather have a war instead?”

Sansa paused just before the doors, glancing down at him with a furrow to her brow.

“Why are those the only two options?” she asked.

Giving him no chance to answer, she continued on as the guards opened the doors, allowing her through with Tyrion silently following her. She kept her chin tilted up as she made her way inside, ignoring every single noble and courtier that she passed. There was little doubt in her mind that she’d see familiar faces in the crowd, were she to look. People who watched her beaten and humiliated and either hid their laughter behind their hands or convinced themselves that they had no means to stop it. Sansa kept her face carefully blank, all too willing to give them absolutely nothing of herself.

What remained of the Targaryen dragon skulls replaced woven tapestries and Baratheon banners. Each larger than the one before it as she walked the length of the Great Hall. The largest of them once belonged to Balerion the Black Dread, unquestionably a fearsome beast when he lived. Bran would shout his name as they played at conquerers as children, Arya and Sansa the Visenya and Rhaenys to his Aegon. Yet it was not a man who sat the Iron Throne now, but rather a petite woman with the silver-gold hair and bright violet eyes of the Targaryens.

“You come before Daenerys of House Targaryen, the First of Her Name, The Unburnt,  Queen of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Queen of Meereen, Khaleesi of the Great Grass Sea, Protector of the Realm, Lady Regent of the Seven Kingdoms, Breaker of Chains, and Mother of Dragons.”

Sansa’s eyes flitted to the young woman who listed off every title without hesitation, wondering how she managed to fit it all in her head. It was certainly a list that demanded obeisance. Joffrey would have been glad for as many titles. Sinking into a curtsy, Sansa bowed her head and let her eyes linger upon the floor, wondering if any of her blood and tears remained upon the stone beneath her, scarring this keep much like Joffrey and his Kingsguard had scarred her back.

“Your Grace,” she said, just loud enough that her words would carry to the queen.

“Rise, Lady Stark.”

Sansa did just that, lifting her eyes as she hid her hands in the folds of her gown, stirred to attention by the foreign hints in the queen’s otherwise soft voice. Daenerys studied her with a distant interest, something like satisfaction in her eyes that brought a feeling of unease forth to Sansa’s mind once more.

“You are most welcome to King’s Landing, my lady,” Daenerys said, her eyes shining as she smiled prettily. “We have much to thank you for, I believe. The support of the Vale helped us immensely in our fight to restore House Targaryen to the throne. Had I known that such a jewel resided within the halls of the Eyrie, I most certainly would have invited you here sooner.”

Her words were sweet enough, dripping with a sort of honeyed flattery that briefly reminded Sansa of Margaery. She wondered where her old friend might have wound up. Had she managed to charm yet another monarch or was she back in Highgarden, too smart to linger when she’d been married to three different kings that Queen Daenerys would see only as usurpers?

“You speak kindly, Your Grace, and you honor me with your invitation. It heartens me to see you in good health and victorious over our enemies.”

The pleased look on Daenerys’ face didn’t falter as she spoke, the smile upon her face only growing. Sansa noted her reaction, well used to people who relished in adulation and compliments.

“Our enemies,” Daenerys said with a nod. “Yes, I understand that your last venture to this city was rather… unpleasant.”

Sansa kept her reactions measured, her head finally tilting towards the gathered crowd. None dared to meet her gaze, unwilling to even acknowledge the fact that they were there to witness such unpleasantries. Tyrion must have told Daenerys everything that he knew of Sansa’s time beneath the thumb of his nephew, sister, and father. Though it was not his story to tell, she felt rather relieved that she would not have to recount it herself.

“In the mildest of terms, Your Grace,” Sansa said, inclining her head in a single nod as she looked to the queen once more.

Daenerys tilted her head to the side ever-so-slightly, the faintest of smiles pulling at her lips.

“We are not altogether different, from what I have heard. Cruelty is no different in the east than it is in the west,” she said, a note of understanding in her voice. “I can only hope that we can offer you better than those who came before us.”

Sansa forced a smile to her lips, crinkling her eyes at the corners as she offered Daenerys another curtsy.

“Such compassion is rare in my experience. Please accept my thanks for your thoughtful words.”

The queen nodded, sitting back upon the throne. Sansa wondered if it would ever cut her delicate skin, as it once cut Joffrey’s, or if she would escape the wrath of a thousand edged swords. She looked as if she would speak once more but she hesitated, her eyes darting about the room and calling Sansa’s attention to the people who surrounded her once more. When Daenerys pushed to her feet, they all rushed to bow and curtsy and Sansa did the same after a moment, wondering if it was love or fear that drove them to submission. Thinking of the dragons that gave the queen one of her many titles, Sansa could easily guess.

“Walk with me, Lady Stark,” Daenerys said, leaving no room for refusal as she walked down the steps.

Though she was a powerful presence, Sansa held quite a bit of height over her as she rose, allowing Daenerys to slip an arm through hers as if they were old friends. Several guards fell in behind them as they walked the length of the hall once more.

“They love to listen, do they not?” Daenerys asked, tilting her head towards Sansa as she kept her voice purposefully low. “Better to spread all of their rumors and lies. I’ve been well warned of the machinations of court.”

An attempt to bond with her. She had little doubt that Tyrion whispered many things into the queen’s ear. Sansa, more than anyone, had every reason to hate court and those who relished in the poisonous taste of it. It came as no surprise that Daenerys would use that to hook her. If she were as naive and simple as the Lannisters thought, she might have fallen for it. All the same, she knew better than to do anything but play along.

“Lord Tyrion is a clever man. You are wise to keep him close,” she said mildly as the guards opened the doors, allowing them to step outside.

“Indeed, his counsel has been invaluable to me,” Daenerys said with a nod, refusing to release her even as they made their way down the steps.

Sansa let her guide them towards the middle bailey, aware that they were likely headed for Maegor’s Holdfast. The Lannisters kept her there, in a small chamber amidst the royal apartments, and she doubted that Daenerys would want her any place else. She may have spoken to her as a dear companion but there was little doubt in Sansa’s mind that she was anything but a threat.

“I’ve been told that you know little of the rumors that the North intends to rebel on your behalf,” Daenerys said, her words suddenly blunt in a way that came as no surprise. “They would spurn my authority and see you as their queen instead.”

Sansa breathed in deeply, bowing her head in a deference as they walked, aware of the displeasure in the queen’s voice. She learned many lessons, both at King’s Landing and in her time under Petyr’s tutelage. There was little that convinced others of a person’s innocence better than the appearance of submission.

“The North was loyal to my brother,” she said, keeping her voice as level as she could. “They are a stubborn sort, Your Grace, but given the chance, I am certain-”

“I can take no chances,” Daenerys cut her off with a shake of her head. “We do not wish for another war. There is no need for further suffering. Your people will have their independence and a ruler with Stark blood upon their throne, with Ned Stark’s daughter at his side.”

Sansa knew to expect it and yet she drew up short at the words, her eyes wide as Daenerys turned to face her. It was the perfect solution, from where the other woman stood. She would not truly lose the North. Not as long as a Targaryen sat the throne in both places.

“Your nephew?” she asked, all too aware of the second Targaryen that inhabited the Red Keep.

How could she not be, knowing exactly who he was?

“He is your cousin as well,” Daenerys said, her hands clasped before her as she gave Sansa a thin smile that screamed of false affection. “I know that you’ve been arranged into marriages before and I regret that it must be done. Though it will be a good match for the both of you. I am certain of that. You will meet him soon enough and realize the same.”

Though her words were likely meant to be comforting, all that Sansa could hear was the command underneath. It mattered little whether she wanted it or not, she would have little choice in the matter. Resentment rose in her chest as she lowered herself into a show of obeisance, knowing better than to speak against Daenerys’ plans. How she begrudged these people for using her as a puppet once more. How she despised this prince, kin though he was, for laying claim to lands that he did not know. How she hated the knowledge that she would have to stifle her true thoughts and feelings for the rest of her life, if she married this man.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Sansa said, covering all of her fury and contempt with her soft, courteous words.

“You will be treated well,” Daenerys said warmly, drawing Sansa into her side once more, ignorant of her stiff form. “I apologize for my nephew’s absence, he dearly loves to ride, you see? But he is a good man, I can promise you that.”

Sansa forced a smile to her face.

“It comforts me to hear it,” she said.

“I’m certain that it does,” Daenerys said, entirely unaware of her lies. “We’ve both been victims of bad men, haven’t we?”

Sansa simply nodded, desperate for solitude so that she might drop the cloak of courtesies she wore and rage in silence.

*****

Her chambers felt like a prison once more, though they were finer than any allowed to her as a Lannister hostage. Yet she could not see the beauty for all her fury, sending her pacing throughout the outer chamber. There was little that she could do. Even the Valemen that accompanied her could not deny a betrothal set in place by the queen. Sansa dropped to the end of her bed with a graceless huff, pressing her face into her hands as she did her best not to scream in frustration. She could hardly blame the northern lords for seeking independence, with Robb’s war so fresh in their minds. 

It was for these lords that she came to King’s Landing at all, wishing to broker a peace with Daenerys and coming away with yet another betrothal to her name. There was little to be done, for she was entirely alone once more. A knock upon her door nearly went unacknowledged but Sansa knew that she couldn’t isolate herself here. Not when she’d be so closely watched. So she crossed to the outer door of the chambers and wrenched it open only to see an olive-skinned woman in the same style of flimsy gown that Daenerys wore, several servants accompanying her with buckets of steaming water. She sank into an unrefined curtsy, though Sansa hardly noticed as she stepped aside wordlessly to allow them through.

“I am Teya, my lady,” the handmaiden said in an accented voice. “Queen Daenerys sent me to see to your needs.”

As much as Sansa wanted to assure her that there was no need for her services, for Teya was undoubtedly a spy, Sansa felt far too exhausted and exasperated to refuse. She simply nodded her head and murmured her thanks before making her way back into the bedchamber once the water was poured out into the tub that awaited her. Teya followed, clearly waiting to be told what to do.

“You may pick a gown for me,” Sansa said, waving a hand towards the singular trunk that she brought.

Teya knelt before it, unlatching the clasp as Sansa slipped behind the screen to pour a few oils into the water. Then she begin unlacing her gown. She was far used to attending herself, stripping every stitch of dusty, travel-worn clothing away.

“You have so few,” Teya said, sounding shocked.

Sansa nearly sighed, aware that Daenerys must have dozens of gowns to choose from, whereas she was limited to her Aunt Lysa’s old gowns or the few that Petyr had made for her, due to the limited resources of a long winter that the Citadel only announced over with two moons ago.

“Any will do,” she said carelessly, stepping into the tub.

The steaming water was a relief, if only for the aches in her body from over a fortnight of travel from the Vale to the capital. Tilting her head back against the edge, she let her eyes fall closed. For just a moment, in spite of the smell of the sea in the air and the crash of waves in the distance, Sansa could almost pretend that she was home again. Winterfell was within reach, for more than it had been in years. It wouldn’t be the same. Far from it, in fact. Yet it would still be her home and far more of a comfort than any place she’d been since leaving it all those years ago.

“Anything else I can do for you, my lady?”

Sansa’s eyes fluttered open as she came back to herself.

“I’d like to take my meal soon,” she said, reaching out to grasp a bar of soap from a nearby stool.

“The queen will likely extend an invite to her chambers for the meal,” Teya said hesitantly.

Sansa stilled for a brief moment before letting out a slow, tremulous breath. She never expected to feel like a prisoner again ye there was no other word that quite fit.  _ Bide your time, sweetling, _ Petyr’s voice whispered in her head.  _ You never know when your time may come. _ Sansa pushed all thoughts of him away, dipping her head beneath the water to escape the world, even if for a few moments.

Once she finished bathing, Sansa dried herself with a sheet and dressed in a blue gown so pale it nearly looked silver, with delicate embroidery along the collar and sleeves and pearls sewn into the bodice by her own hand. Then she found herself sitting before the vanity as Teya ran a brush through her hair. Sansa kept her hands folded in her lap, remember how she once instructed Shae through every stroke with a grimace, wondering if this strange woman would ruin her beloved hair. Now she remained silent until Teya set the brush aside and lifted her hands to Sansa’s hair only to hesitate.

“What is it?” she asked, peering at her through the looking glass that sat upon the vanity.

“I-I’ve dressed the queen’s hair but I’ve never done the same for anyone else, apart from myself,” Teya admitted.

Sansa thought of Daenerys’ hair, pulled away from her face in a multitude of braids with bells wound into the plaits. The complicated styles of the south never truly suited her. Not like the simplicity of the northern styles that simply allowed her hair to shine, a bright spot of color amidst the greys, whites, and blacks of Winterfell. Sansa waved her away, pinning back a section of hair at either of her temples and allowing the rest to fall loose down her back. Though Daenerys may look down upon her for the simplicity of it, Sansa could hardly bring herself to care.

No one accompanied her as she made her way across the holdfast to the queen’s apartments yet Sansa needed no escort to find her way. She knew the way to the largest apartments quite well, if only so that she could avoid them while Joffrey inhabited the rooms. As she approached, the first thing she noticed was the lack of guards in the corridor. The next was the sound of raised voices, audible through the cracked door. Sansa wondered if Daenerys’ guards had been dismissed for the sake of this confrontation and, in the next moment, wondered who dared to speak to the queen in such a way.

“The cruelty of this act is beyond words!” a man’s voice reached her ears, thunderous in his anger.

“How is it cruel? There  _ will  _ be a marriage. I simply suggested the best of options,” Daenerys’ voice countered, just as loud and heated.

“The best of options? You call yourself the Breaker of Chains and yet you show little hesitation in shackling this woman to us for the good of no one but  _ yourself _ !”

A moment’s pause allowed Sansa to reach the obvious realization, that they were speaking of her. She had her suspicions before but now there was no doubt in her mind that this voice belonged to that of her betrothed.

“You misunderstand me,  _ Zokla _ ,” Daenerys’ voice came through, quieter than before yet still loud enough for Sansa to hear. “I aim to do what is best for everyone.”

Before she knew it, the man began ranting once more in a language that Sansa could not translate yet knew to be High Valyrian. She caught the random few words from Septa Mordane’s teachings but not enough to know what he said. Daenerys fired back just as quickly, the language entirely natural on her tongue. Sansa felt uncomfortable the longer she stood there, yet had to force herself to move when she heard heavy footsteps and saw the door yank open the rest of the way. Slipping silently into a nearby unlit corridor, Sansa fit herself into an alcove to hide and peered out in time to watch as a dark figure passed by, his hair matching the clothing that he wore.

Her breath caught in her throat at the realization that her cousin bore the look of his mother, her aunt, rather than the ethereal hair of the Targaryens. For all she knew, he had the angular features and violet eyes of the Targaryens, but it brought an odd feeling to her chest that he had at least something of the North in his blood. Sansa couldn’t bring herself to move for a long few moments, her hand braced against the cool stone of the wall as she remained half-hidden in the alcove, breathing in and out deeply. Only when she managed to compose herself did she slip out and make her way towards Daenerys’ chamber, hoping that the queen’s anger wouldn’t direct itself her way.

The guards still had yet to return so she knocked lightly upon the door, waiting with a wary feeling stirring in her chest as she hid her shaking hands behind her back. It took only a few moments for Daenerys to open the door, a look of irritation upon her delicate features that faded as soon as she caught sight of Sansa, waiting until she curtsied to step aside with a practiced smile, inviting her through without a word. The outer chamber was as large as Sansa’s entire rooms combined, with a roaring fire in the hearth and a veritable feast laid out upon a long table.

“You only just missed my nephew,” Daenerys said, surprisingly composed for the row she just took part in. 

She even managed to sound regretful, as if the man would be any sort of good company considering how angry he clearly felt. Was it on behalf of himself? Did he not wish to be tied down in marriage? Or was it for Sansa? She doubted it could be the latter. There was little reason for him to care for her at all.

“That is rather unfortunate,” Sansa said, hoping that her words were convincing.

Daenerys certainly looked satisfied enough, gesturing to the table as she closed and latched the door.

“Sit with me, please.”

Sansa did as she said, taking a seat to Daenerys’ left.

“I’ve heard tales of your time in King’s Landing,” she said as they piled food upon their plates. “Yet Tyrion seems clueless as to your experiences after his nephew’s death. How did you find your way to the Vale?”

She hesitated for a brief moment, reaching out to grasp her cup so that she could take a generous sip of wine before answering. Daenerys didn’t look fooled by her brief recount, though she didn’t push for details either. Sansa kept her eyes downcast, taking the occasional bite even as her stomach twisted with nerves.

“I hear that Lord Baelish was tried and executed by the Lords Declarant of the Vale,” Daenerys said, tilting her head to the side in a clear bid for information.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sansa said, nodding her head.

The queen simply raised her eyebrows and she knew that she could not leave it at that. Not when it was common knowledge that she’d been posing as his bastard. Anyone with a mind of their own could figure out that she had something to do with his downfall since she was left unscathed by it.

“It was discovered that he had a part in the death of my betrothed, Lord Harold Hardyng. The lords and ladies of the Vale heard the evidence and passed their judgment upon him,” she said, taking a small bite of chicken.

“By who?”

Sansa’s eyes darted up quite without her permission, meeting her violet eyes.

“Who gave the evidence?” Daenerys clarified..

“I did,” she said simply.

Silence settled over them as she dropped her eyes back to her plate, aware of the queen’s stare upon her.

“It must have been difficult,” Daenerys said after a moment, though she did not wait for an answer. “I’ve heard tell of your capable regency over the Eyrie. I am rather confident that you will make a worthy consort for my nephew.”

Sansa’s hand tightened around her fork, a sudden heat rising to her skin at the idea of sitting to the side as another ruled her ancestral lands. It mattered little to her that Prince Jaehaerys was as much a Stark as she. He did not know the North as she did.

“You honor me, Your Grace,” she said, forcing a smile to her lips as she looked to Daenerys. “I dearly hope that I do not disappoint.”

Daenerys looked satisfied as she reached out to take hold of her cup.

“I’ve  heard so little of the North,” she said, mindless of Sansa’s tension. “What do you remember of it?”

Dropping her eyes to her plate, Sansa felt the rising urge to tell her absolutely nothing of the home she remembered. Yet she would not refuse a queen’s request, knowing how little patience monarchs could have. Even ones that grew in exile, she imagined.

“The snows,” Sansa answered, letting her gaze drift to nothing at all as she recalled the kiss of flakes upon her skin.

“Even in summer?” Daenerys said, her eyebrows raising.

She nodded, lifting her cup to her lips to take a sip of the sweet wine.

“You must have the thickest of skin, to withstand such cold.”

“It’s warm within the castle,” Sansa said, folding her hands in her lap as food became the last thing on her mind. “Winterfell is built upon hot springs that run through the walls.”

“How clever,” Daenerys said, that same sweet smile upon her lips. “I hope I have reason to visit one day. It sounds like quite the place.”

Sansa managed a smile in return, nodding her head.

“We will be kin,” she said, forcing herself to speak the words evenly. “Your presence will always be welcome, I am certain.”

Daenerys nodded in return, offering her a wider smile.

“My nephew is a most lucky man,” she said, her eyes flitting to her nephew. “I imagine he will be the envy of all with such a queen at his side.”

Sansa said nothing at all, though her feelings of resentment grew at Daenerys’ words. The rest of the meal passed in the same manner, as they exchanged mild pleasantries and minor details about themselves. When Daenerys rose to her feet as the food was cleared away, Sansa followed her in example without hesitation, eager to seek solitude once more.

“You are every bit as kind and charming as Tyrion claimed,” Daenerys said, rounding the table to take Sansa’s hands in both of her own.

“I could say the same for you, Your Grace,” Sansa said, bowing her head appreciatively.

Satisfied by her answer, Daenerys dismissed her as the servants carried plates out. Sansa curtsied to her before slipping through the door. Four guards now stood around it, surprising her at their number. Was the queen truly in so much danger or was it paranoia that caused her to surround herself with so much protection? Ducking her head, she moved by them as quickly as she could, knowing well how little honor could matter to those who served so close to kings and queens. She only had to look at her scarred back to remember what they’d do to prove their loyalty.

*****

Her cry still echoed off the stone walls of her bedchamber as Sansa scrambled from beneath the furs that covered her, lurching towards the window on shaking legs. Only when a breeze washed over her face did she feel as if she could breathe, gulping in mouthfuls of air as she gripped the sill for support, certain that she would collapse without it. The dream still lingered in her mind, Joffrey’s cruel laughter surrounding her as she ran through endless corridors, Kingsguard knights pursued her with swords stained with her blood.

For the past two nights, ever since she returned to King’s Landing, her experiences there haunted her dreams, rousing her from sleep with panic clawing at her chest. Just like every other night, she knew that there would be no more sleep for her. It didn’t take long to feel as if the walls closed in on her. So she stripped her sweat-soaked shift away, splashed water onto her face, and dressed herself as desperation clawed at her chest. The woolen gown was the warmest that she owned, plain though it was.

Sansa cared little for how she looked, only for how quickly she could escape these chambers. She clasped a cloak over it and shoved her feet into her riding boots before hurrying from the chambers as she tied her tangled hair off in a braid over her shoulder. There were few guards about and none chose to stop her, likely because she made no move to walk in the direction of the queen’s chambers. She simply rushed down steps and through corridors until she managed to find her way outside, unaware of the shadow that followed her.

She walked slowly across the drawbridge, ignoring the iron spikes that lined the dry moat, illuminated by dim moonlight. Her feet carried her along a familiar path, up the serpentine steps and even further up after that, to the battlements that lined the keep. Her tears fell endlessly and she did little to stop them, her breaths coming out in short gasps and hiccups as she hurried along the ramparts to the most familiar spot. As she drew to a stop, her chest seized and her breath felt trapped in her throat.

There was nothing to be seen along the outer walls, yet she could remember the sight of familiar heads upon speaks all too easily. Her knees weakened as a cry rose in her chest, slipping out into the air as she crumpled to the ground. She could scarcely breathe, her emotions welling up within her and finding its outlet in her tears for the first time in a very long time. Her fingers scraped at the ground where she once stood, Joffrey’s Kingsguard keeping her from running as he relished in her pain.

_ How long do I have to look? _

_ As long as it pleases me. _

Sansa felt a stinging pain in her hands yet paid it no mind, wishing that she could be far from this place. That she could be back in the Vale, with familiar faces that cared little for her name. People like Myranda, with her bold words and outrageous acts. Mya, who never looked at her differently even when she ceased to be Alayne. Nestor and Yohn Royce, who did not hold Baelish’s crimes against her even when she fashioned herself as his bastard. She even wished for Winterfell, longing for the family that she’d lost.

A sound to her left pulled a gasp from her lips as she turned her head only to lurch to her feet with a shocked cry, her eyes widening at the sight of the man who stood not ten paces away. Squinting at him through the darkness, she could only see the ghost of her father in his shadowed form. Her vision grew dark, her mind grasping for understanding as she felt her knees grow weak once more. As she began to sway, he darted towards her and caught her with entirely solid, strong arms before she could hit the ground. Lifting her hand as he cradled her close, Sansa brushed her fingers over his cheek and whispered one word as she succumbed to the darkness.

“Father?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear what you think so far!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to this fic has been ABSOLUTELY AMAZING. You all blow me away, truly. I only hope that I can fulfill expectations and not disappoint you all. That's my biggest fear. I hope I can continue to make you all happy. <3

She woke to warmth, the sound of birds crying in the bay reaching her ears as she tilted her head towards the sunlight that filtered through the window. Blinking her eyes open, Sansa stretched out her aching limbs and sighed as she snuggled further into the soft bed she laid upon. Only as she closed her eyes again did she remember what happened during the night. A gasp slipped from her lips as she sat up, searching the room desperately. It was her bedchamber in Maegor’s holdfast.

She didn’t remember returning, only the sight of her father hovering near to her on the battlements just before he caught her as she fainted. Sansa searched the room in vain for his face, wondering if he watched over her even now. It was impossible, she knew, but far stranger things had happened. The dragons flying about the city proved that well enough. Just as she pushed the furs away from her legs, Teya wandered into the room with a basin of water for her to freshen up with, humming to herself.

“Where is he?” Sansa said, startling her.

“Oh, my lady,” Teya said, sinking into a curtsy. “Are you well?”

Ignoring her question, Sansa slid from the bed rather clumsily.

“Where is he? Where is my father?”

A frown came over the young woman’s face as she cast her eyes about the room before looking to Sansa once more.

“Your father?”

“Yes, my father,” she said, knowing that she sounded insane yet caring little, for she trusted her own eyes. “I saw him last night.”

“Do you mean the prince?” Teya asked, tilting her head to the side. “Prince Jaehaerys? He found you wandering the castle in a strange state and brought you back to your chambers when you fainted, my lady.”

Sansa blinked quickly, unable to quite understand what she heard.

“He was quite concerned for you. He had the maester summoned here and everything, in spite of the late hour.”

“The prince?” she breathed, her mind struggling to make sense of it as she sank down to sit upon her bed once more.

Teya nodded, concern crossing her face.

“Shall I call upon the maester again?”

Sansa shook her head quickly, unwilling to be poked at when she knew exactly what ailed her. It made sense, that he looked so like her father, yet it was heartbreaking to realize it all the same. Then she felt shame that he saw her in such a vulnerable state, crying at the last spot where she looked upon her father. Where Joffrey brought her day after day to taunt her, relishing in every moment of pain it brought to her. She wondered if he would use her weakness against her, just before it occurred to her that he must have followed her there.

He’d been absent ever since she arrived in King’s Landing, his excuses growing stale even to her, though she was grateful not to have crossed his path. Daenerys was less than pleased yet she seemed resigned to it as well, as if she had little hope of controlling him. He was as much a mystery to Sansa as the day she arrived and heard his argument with the queen. Carrying her back to her chambers and calling upon a maester to look her over only confused her more, in truth. She had little idea of what to think about him, only nominally informed by those who knew him when she did not.

Tyrion offered little details, speaking of his quiet solemnity and a propensity for swordcraft. He was a formidable fighter, learning from some of the best throughout his life in Essos, from Braavosi water dancers to Tyroshi sellswords and Dothraki horseriders. Still, she knew little of him. Had he retained any Stark trait outside of his looks or was Lyanna’s blood weakened by his Targaryen kin? Did he have quick changes in mood like his aunt or was his temperament calmer? Sansa found herself distracted by the dozens of questions that flitted through her mind with no hope of answers.

“The queen has been most worried,” Teya said, a furrow to her brow.

Sansa doubted very much that Daenerys concerned herself with her welfare outside of needing Sansa’s claim to the North. She kept her thoughts to herself, nodding her head as she inhaled deeply and steeled herself.

“Go to Queen Daenerys and tell her that I am quite refreshed,” Sansa said, looking up at the handmaiden. “And that I am grateful to the prince for helping me in my time of need.”

Teya nodded, looking thrilled to deliver such a message.

“Anything else, my lady? A message for the prince, perhaps?”

Sansa shook her head in refusal.

“I would save my gratitude for when we meet again,” she said, helpless against the curiosity that rose within her.

She needed to see Prince Jaehaerys in the light of day otherwise the ghost of her father, so clear in her mind, may well haunt her forever. Yet it seemed that she was cursed to be dissatisfied because no one ever seemed to know where the prince might be. No guards or servants could answer her queries as to his location with anything more than assurances that he often left the castle to ride. How anyone could spend so much time upon a horse was beyond her.

It was only when Daenerys came upon her chambers with a trail of servants that she received any sort of answer. With wide eyes, Sansa watched as they laid bolts of fabric upon every surface of her outer chamber, both bright and muted, silks and lace and everything in between. Daenerys paid no mind to her shock, approaching with a beaming look as she took Sansa’s hands in her own and squeezed them lightly.

“I’m glad for your recovery, Lady Stark,” she said, holding Sansa’s gaze. “You gave us all quite the scare. I felt quite guilty myself, for not realizing how overwhelming it all must be for you. Do not hesitate to rest whenever you need it, from this day forth.”

Sansa nodded, wondering if the prince hadn’t told her about the state in which he found her. Overwhelmed wasn’t quite the word to describe her tears and sobs yet Daenerys seemed ignorant of how distraught she’d been. She was thankful for it, in truth, not wanting to show any true vulnerability to the queen. Yet it still did not sit well with her that the prince saw her that way.

“Teya told me that you have little gowns to choose from and that simply will not do,” Daenerys said, turning back to look at the dozens of fabric choices. “My dressmaker will remedy the situation.”

Sansa opened her mouth to refuse, ready to claim that she didn’t deserve such an honor, but Daenerys gave her a silencing look.

“You will be a princess first, then a queen,” she reminded Sansa. “You must dress for it. Besides, you need a wedding gown as well.”

A well dressed woman ushered Sansa to a stool and began taking her measurements as Daenerys and her handmaidens looked through the fabrics while murmuring amongst themselves.

“If it pleases you, Your Grace, I would like the chance to make my own wedding gown.”

Daenerys glanced up with a surprised expression yet it was not her that answered Sansa’s words.

“You have skill with a needle, my lady?” the seamstress asked.

Sansa nodded, turning to the side when needed.

“My septa taught me,” she said, raising her arm to be measured from shoulder to fingertip. “And my mother.”

She cast an open, hopeful look to Daenerys and received a nod in return.

“A meaningful thought,” she said, though there was a trace of envy in her voice.

“Thank you, my queen,” Sansa said, offering her a smile so practiced that she knew well that it looked real to anyone apart from herself.

Once Daenerys’ dressmaker allowed her to step down, Sansa wandered to a thick roll of light dove grey fabric that caught and held her attention for the last few minutes. She could already see a gown in her mind’s eye, decorated with silver and white thread along the bodice and sleeves. Eyeing Daenerys’ gown, Sansa knew that she could blend well, crafting a mixture of the northern style with the new fashion that the queen had introduced to court.

“Your Grace,” she said, choosing to use this moment to her advantage. “I’ve tried to find the prince to thank him for his help only it seems that he’s never around.”

Daenerys huffed, an affectionate frustration crossing her face as she shook her head.

“ _Zokla_ is as restless as Rhaegal,” she said with a roll of her eyes as her translator, Missandei, stifled a smile behind her lips.

Though Sansa did not understand the Valyrian word that Daenerys used in place of Jaehaerys’ name, she understood the second of the names quite well and felt foolish for not realizing it. Of course the prince was not riding out on a horse each day. He was as much dragon as he was wolf and she doubted that anything within this city held as much distraction as climbing atop such a beast.

“What is it like?” Sansa asked, voicing her curiosity. “To ride a dragon?”

A look of true happiness flitted over Daenerys’ face and for the first time, Sansa saw the woman and not the queen.

“It’s indescribable,” Daenerys said, brushing her fingers over a pale lavender fabric as the dressmaker instructed her helpers to match other colors to Sansa’s skin and hair. “Like you’re a part of the wind.”

Sansa nodded, glancing away from her as she let her eyes flit over the fabrics. It was impossible not to wonder what this was all for. Did Daenerys seek to bring her in closer by showering her with gifts? It wasn’t like the Lannisters. There was very little black and red amidst the fabrics so the queen wasn’t attempting to drape her in Targaryen colors quite yet. But it could be a claim upon her nonetheless. In truth, the dread she felt for her upcoming marriage only grew the longer she spent in King’s Landing.

*****

Sansa dismissed Teya well before the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, watching the sky until it was black as pitch. Only then did she don her cloak once more, pulling the hood over her hair as she slipped out her chambers. The guards paid her little mind as she passed yet she could feel their eyes on her all the same. Her skin prickled with awareness as she wound her way up the serpentine steps yet she did not turn, her steps quick and determined. Even in the darkness, she could find her way easily to the one escape she found when she lived in King’s Landing.

Only when the great oak heart tree loomed over her did she turn on her heel, whirling about to face the man that pursued her. He was shadowed by the looming trees of the godswood, a black cloak shrouding his form in a way that made him look like the phantom she initially assumed him to be. Sansa’s chest rose and fell quickly, her hands trembling as she stared at him for a long few moments, waiting to hear whether he would account for himself. Taking a slow step forward, Sansa half expected him to turn away but he remained perfectly still.

“Why?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

No answer came, though he stepped forward into the wide spot of moonlight where she stood. Her chest seized at the sight of him, dark hair and eyes that offset his pale skin. Now, as she studied him thoroughly, she could see the differences that hadn’t been clear in the midst of her grief. He was tall and lean, though she could see the strength in his form. He was beautiful in a way that she never imagined but Sansa knew better than to let herself be fooled by outward appearance. She felt rooted in place by his eyes, intense and dark as they were, her lips parting as she took measured breaths. Her heart flipped in her chest, her hood slipping as she tilted her head up to hold his gaze.

“Why follow me?” Sansa asked, hating the tremble in her voice.

Though she had expected it, wanting to lure him into this place, she still needed to know. When his lips parted, she held her breath to hear him speak.

“Why were you crying?”

His voice was low and quiet, with a hint of roughness that drew her in. Color rose to her cheeks as she dropped her eyes to the rather plain clasp of his cloak.

“My father,” she breathed.

“I resemble him?”

There was something beneath his voice, a longing that drew her eyes to his face once more. Sansa nodded slowly, wetting her lips as she drank in her fill of him. He looked so far from what she imagined that it was almost addictive, watching him this way. When his hands lifted, she flinched away without thinking, her instincts flaring to life with all of the memories of this place constantly lingering on the edge of her mind. He grew still, his eyes fixing upon hers with a questioning look. Sansa didn’t say anything or indicate her permission yet she didn’t pull away either, watching to see what he would do. Her eyes fluttered as he gently pushed the hood back, revealing the fall of her hair.

“And you?” he asked, tilting his head to the side as his hands fell back to his sides.

“My mother,” Sansa said, knowing what he wanted to hear.

His eyes lingered upon her hair as if he was transfixed by it.

“The queen,” she said, registering the flash of anger through his eyes at the mention of his aunt. “She calls you something and I wondered-”

“ _Zokla_ ,” he said, his voice knowing.

Sansa nodded slowly, hoping that he would grasp her reason for mentioning it without having to explain it.

“It means wolf.”

Heat suddenly rose to her chest, fierce and consuming as she took a step away from him, feeling crushed beneath the reminder of all that stood between them.

“Has she always intended for you to claim the North, then?”

Surprise flitted through his eyes before they closed off to her once more, growing flat and black as she watched. His face was entirely unreadable even as his jaw clenched.

“I did not ask for this,” he said, his voice just as quiet as her own.

“Yet you will do it all the same,” Sansa said, hating that he’d affected her so much. “What if my brother had lived? He was named King in the North by his people. Would you have taken his birthright from him as well?”

“Did you not hear me?” the prince demanded, taking a step towards her.

Sansa shook her head as fear brought a chill curling down her spine, angry tears stinging at her eyes.

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

“That does not change the truth.”

Sansa stared at him with wide eyes, feeling entirely off-kilter as he crowded close to her.

“You did not answer my question,” she said, resisting the urge to move away from him. “Why do you follow me?”

His eyes blazed as he stared at her, his chest rising and falling quickly as if he’d run a great distance.

“Curiosity,” he finally said, his voice distant now. “I wanted to see if you’d try to flee.”

Sansa’s lips parted in shock at his words as her eyes grew wide.

“Would you have stopped me?” she asked, the words slipping out before she could call them back. “If I tried?”

Only silence answered her question and though her heart sank, it was enough of an answer for her. Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, Sansa stared at him without flinching.

“What would happen to the North if I did not do what your aunt asks of me?” she questioned.

Though his eyes widened ever so slightly, he gave no other indication of his thoughts. Sansa could guess the answer well enough, having heard rumors of how Daenerys treated her enemies in Essos.

“You may relieve yourself of such a duty, Your Highness,” Sansa said, her voice cold and hard. “I know where my loyalties lie.”

She gathered herself as an unspoken challenge rose between them. Though he didn’t stop her as she slipped past him, Sansa didn’t make it to the edge of the godswood before he grasped her arm gently, pushing her against a tree. Panic clawed at her chest and she prepared herself to fight him, wishing that she’d found a knife to bring along, even if it was a dull one. Yet he simply loomed over her, his eyes dark and filled with twisted emotions.

“I would have helped you,” he hissed.

Sansa’s mind grew still at his words even and she remained braced against the tree even as he stepped away, his gaze still burning into her eyes. Only when he turned away and stalked off into the darkness did she feel as if she could breathe once more, pressing a hand over her racing heart. It took quite a bit of time to convince her feet to move. The slow walk to her chambers gave her no answers and as she unlaced and stepped out of her gown and slid beneath the furs upon her bed, Sansa felt entirely uncertain of what to think now.

All she knew was that this prince was certainly not what she expected.

*****

As the days passed, Sansa threw herself into sewing her gown as a means of distraction. Her chambers gave her the peace that she needed to concentrate, her fingers remembering the task the longer she spent bent over the fabric. Daenerys came through every once in a while, her household accompanying her as she expressed her ever-increasing surprise at Sansa’s ability. It didn’t take long for her to request that Sansa create a dress for her one day as she took in the fine embroidery upon the bodice.

The red leaves of a weirwood tree surrounding a snarling white direwolf, black swirls and scrolls bringing the Targaryen colors into the gown. At the collar, she stitched silver leaves around pure white pearls to match the silk-lined maiden’s cloak she would wear. She only wished that the task would keep her mind from wandering but she could only think of Prince Jaehaerys, wondering if his words were true. Every fiber of her being screamed at her not to trust him yet there was a part of her that cried out for someone to lean on.

He seemed to disappear from the castle once more, much to Daenerys’ annoyance. Sansa found that she didn’t mind, avoiding any late night walks to keep from crossing his path once more. As much as she wanted to confront him once more and demand answers, true answers apart from his cryptic words, Sansa feared what she might hear from him. He frightened her, in all his dark intensity, and she was content to wait as long as possible to see him again. Yet she never expected that it wouldn’t happen until the very day of their wedding.

A part of Sansa wondered if he would refuse to attend the wedding and feared what may happen. Would she be blamed for it? Would the queen’s anger fall upon them both? Would the North suffer for it? Yet he made his presence known without seeing her at all, sending a page to her door as she broke her fast, eating very little on account of the nerves that twisted at her stomach. Teya let the servant through and he bowed to Sansa in spite of the small chest he held. Curiosity unfurled within her chest as she waved him forward, allowing him to set it before her.

“From the queen?” Sansa asked curiously.

“No, my lady,” the boy said, shaking his head as he stepped away. “From the prince.”

Sansa blinked at him with surprise, her eyes flitting to a wide-eyed Teya before she waved her hand in dismissal. She waited until the door shut behind the page before slowly pushing the lid of the chest open. Rather than the jewelry that she expected, Sansa was greeted with the sight of an ornately carved dagger sitting upon a red satin cushion. Her hands trembled as she brushed her fingers over the hilt, a sharp intake of breath filling the air as she realized that there was a direwolf carved into the silver.

“Tis a lovely piece, my lady,” Teya said, peering over her shoulder.

“Is it a custom in Essos?” Sansa asked, her voice quiet and breathless. “Perhaps in Pentos or in Meereen?”

“Brides are given many gifts. Though the prince has always seemed a practical man to me.”

Lifting it out of the chest, Sansa found it to be heavier than she expected. Arya would have relished in a wedding gift like this, in another life if she ever even relented to marriage. Yet Sansa wasn’t certain what to do with it even as she drew the dagger from the sheath and let her eyes flit over the sharpened blade. She felt uncomfortable with such a weapon in her hand, quickly sliding it back into the sheath before laying it on the cushion.

“Send my thanks to the prince,” Sansa said, rising from her seat.

A part of her regretted that she had nothing to send him in return though she did not voice such a thought, making her way into her bedchamber to seek a reprieve in the scented bath that awaited her. Teya did not return for quite some time, leaving her in solitude to scrub at her skin and thoroughly wash her hair. The handmaiden returned just as she dried herself and pulled a clean shift over her head, and she was not alone. A few of Daenerys’ servants accompanied her, eager to help Sansa prepare for the wedding.

Her hair was brushed to a silken perfection, left to fall about her shoulders in copper waves with small sections of it pinned up just behind her temples. Daenerys must have taken note of how she wore it at their first supper and for that she was thankful. Her nerves seemed to get the best of her as one of the women laced her into the gown she labored over for days, her face growing pale and her hands shaking without ceasing. Teya noticed before the others, pressing a cup of sweet wine into her hands so that she could drink of it and steady herself.

Sansa gave her a nod of gratitude, sipping at it slowly as she stepped towards the window to breathe in the fresh air. She stared out at the bay, grateful that she could not see the city and the Great Sept in the distance. It sickened her to think of passing the steps where her father’s blood once spilled out to marry. It was the one grace that the Lannisters offered, allowing her to marry Tyrion in the castle sept. When she heard the distant sound of the bells as they began to ring, Sansa closed her eyes and did her best to keep herself from screaming out in protest.

“My lady?” Teya said.

Sansa took a deep, steadying breath before looking her way. She stood near with the white maiden cloak draped over her arms. There was an unspoken question in her eyes that Sansa hesitated to answer. Yet she knew that she had little choice and delaying the inevitable would only make it harder. So she nodded her head, setting aside the cup and turning with her hair draped over her shoulder. She clasped the cloak as Teya draped it over her shoulders, pressing her teeth into her lower lip.

“You look lovely,” Teya said, stepping away.

Sansa smoothed out her gown and took in another slow, deep breath before nodding her head yet again.

“I’m ready.”

She didn’t spare a look for anyone, making her way out of her chambers. The walk to the courtyard passed in a blur, with Teya holding the train of her gown and cloak so that it would not drag in the dirt. Yet the journey to the sept seemed to go slowly in the enclosed litter. She could hear the murmurs and cheers of people yet couldn’t bring herself to look out at them, wondering if they had any sense of what truly happened when the highborn wed. It felt as if she was carving away a piece of her, the closer they drew to the sept.

As they ascended the steps, Sansa kept her eyes fixed forward as she gripped her skirts tightly in her fists. Tyrion was there to escort her as she entered the outer hall, little more than a figurehead as she had no one else to lead her her to the altar. As the great doors opened, Sansa spared him no look and simply walked at his side, her head held high. She spared no glance for the onlookers, keeping her eyes fixed forward as she walked along the cleared aisle with slow, purposeful steps.

She could see Daenerys’ silver hair in the corner of her eye as she reached the prince’s side, refusing to look his way. Once the High Septon spoke his piece, asking who came before the gods and waiting for her answer and Tyrion’s ceremonial giving of her hand, he took a step back and held his arms out in a gesture. The prince hesitated a moment longer than her, unpracticed in the Faith of the Seven as he knelt at her side, wrapped in the black and red of his house name.

Sansa could feel his discomfort from the moment she stepped up to stand at his side. She had little doubt that he made no effort to look even slightly happy. Everyone knew their marriage was one of convenience, a political ploy by Daenerys to keep the North within the power of House Targaryen. Most people would at least bother pretending as if it made them happy, yet Jaehaerys seemed content to frown his way through every stage of the ceremony. The High Septon prayed over them loudly, his voice carrying as he relished in his own importance.

When it came time to rise, Sansa prayed that her gown would not tear only to see Jaehaerys’ hand appear in her eyeline. She glanced his way briefly, though could not read the expression in his eyes as they flitted up to meet hers. It was odd, seeing him in the light of day after their nighttime confrontation. He looked more uncertain than angry. After a moment’s hesitation, she slipped her hand into his, the warmth of his skin and roughness of his palm bringing goosebumps to the surface of her skin.

Even more curiously, he didn’t release her hand once they both stood, keeping it clasped in his own as the High Septon continued speaking in a loud, self-important voice. Only once they faced one another to speak the vows did he take her other hand, holding them both in a loose grip that she easily could have broken if she wanted. Their eyes met as they repeated the High Septon’s words, irrevocably binding themselves to one another. When it came time for him to cloak and kiss her in order to seal their union, Sansa remained perfectly still and wondered if he would refuse either custom.

Yet he removed the white cloak from her shoulders, handing it off to a nearby groom of his household before unclasping his own. Sansa remained stiff, drawing her hair over her shoulder to allow him to drape the black and red cloak over her. It felt heavy upon her and his scent surrounded her, earthy and masculine in a way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Then he faced her once more and her breath caught in her throat as he leaned in slowly, giving her enough time to pull away if she wished before brushing his lips over hers.

With all of the horrible kisses forced upon her seared into her memory, this one stood out to her in its simplicity. He took no liberties, much to her relief, pulling away after a brief moment to turn towards the clapping crowd of courtiers. Sansa forced a smile to her lips, though she knew that it did not shine in her eyes. Jaehaerys held her hand in a gentle grip as they descended the altar, leading the way towards the doors. It seemed as if the ceremony passed far too quickly and the knowledge that she was wed once more seemed entirely odd to her.

Sansa’s eyes blinked against the brightness of the sun as they stepped out amidst a cheering crowd of smallfolk, all eager to catch sight of the newly wedded couple. She couldn’t understand it when it was Joffrey’s wedding and even less now, when they hardly knew the Targaryen prince and likely didn’t remember her at all. As they descended towards the street, she searched for the litter that brought her there only to find that it was nowhere in sight. All that awaited them was a black destrier, large and imposing to her.

“I can summon a litter, if you like,” Jaehearys said, finally speaking to her for the first time.

She glanced towards him, swallowing hard and shaking her head as her eyes darted away just as quickly. Sansa had no idea what to make of this man and his confusing presence didn’t help her to trust him any more than she did before they met. She knew to tread carefully around him, for she’d suffered the temper of a prince once before.

“It is my honor to ride with you, my prince,” she said quietly, sinking into a curtsy before him.

As she rose, Sansa saw confusion pass over his face before he stepped around her. He swung into the saddle effortlessly, shifting backward far enough to leave her space to sit before him. Two grooms approached, to help her up yet it was the prince’s hand, held out for her in offering once more, that hoisted her into the saddle. It was an uncomfortable proximity between them, his arms wrapping around her to take hold of the reins. In another life, she might have leaned into him with a pleased, loving smile upon her face. In this one, however, Sansa sat stiffly as his warmth surrounded her. The slow ride to the Red Keep was fraught with tension and yet she bore it in silence, praying for an end to it the entire way.

“I ought to apologize to you,” Jaehaerys said as they neared the gates, startling her out of her thoughts. “My emotions got the best of me, as happens often. I will strive to be better in the future, you have my word.”

It did not escape Sansa that he offered no true apology, yet she knew better than to point it out. Her armor was well in place, fitting over her like a familiar friend as she stared straight forward unseeingly.

“There is nothing to apologize for, Your Highness,” she said, her voice distant.

Though she could not see him, Sansa could feel his eyes upon her and imagined the displeased frown that he wore.

“I disagree,” he said, an edge to his voice.

“As is your right,” Sansa said, relief filling her as they passed through the gates into the outer courtyard. “I apologize for speaking out of turn.”

“No, that’s not-” Jaehaerys cut off, annoyance clear in his voice as he huffed out a sigh.

Sansa let herself be helped from the saddle all too easily once they stopped, breathing out a quiet sigh as she stood on her own two feet without his form pressed against her so intimately. She waited expectantly, knowing that they were expected to lead the procession to the Great Hall. It wouldn’t be an entirely joyful feast for her, yet Sansa willingly took his arm all the same. To her utter lack of surprise, Daenerys sat in the centermost seat. The queen was the happiest in the room, looking for all the world as if it was her own wedding feast.

Daenerys observed every offer of congratulations with a smile upon her face, even though it was Sansa and the prince accepting them. They ate little between the two of them and drank even less, yet had little choice but to rise to their feet when the minstrels began playing. Jaehaerys rose first, knowing that it was their duty to lead the first dance. Sansa removed his cloak and took his hand with a demure, forced smile as she allowed him to help her up. Everyone about them cheered as they took to the floor yet all she could feel was apprehension.

“Why are you acting this way?” he asked as soon as he was certain that only Sansa could hear him.

“My prince?” she asked, playing the fool as she stepped in sync with him.

His face showed his frustration quite clearly, his callused hands holding hers in a gentle grip as they moved about in time to the music. He was not an entirely skilled dancer but there was a certain grace to his movements that spoke of a lifetime of learning how to control his body. Sansa knew that was a warrior, judging by the scars she could see and the ones she knew likely marked him beneath the clothes he wore. How young was he when he took up a sword? Somehow, she knew that his learning was far less gentle than Robb’s, even with Ser Rodrick as a teacher. Here, standing so close in the light of the Great Hall, she could see that his grey eyes were flecked with violet shades. It was a strangely alluring color.

“Do you forget that I spoke with you before? That I know how you sound when you speak your mind?” he asked.

Sansa fought to keep the surprise from her face. No one had ever bothered to see through her mask of courtesies. Even if they did, they pretended otherwise. He was the first to ever question it.

“I ask your forgiveness, husband. I forgot myself and should not have spoken that way.”

“Stop it.”

Sansa’s eyes grew slightly wide at his hissed command.

“I do not want to hear such things,” Jaehaerys said.

She could not help but huff out a disbelieving sigh as he twirled her about, her skirts swishing about her legs as she spun back into his arms.

“Everyone wants to hear such things,” Sansa said, meeting his eyes.

He shook his head minutely, his eyes closing for a brief moment. She eyed him thoughtfully, wondering if this was true vulnerability she saw just before his eyes opened and fixed upon her once more.

“I wish I understood.”

His muttered words caught her completely offguard. Sansa had no answer for him. No idea of what to say as they moved through the dance with little passion for it. She found her voice once more only as he led her back to their table, her hand clasped in his.

“What does that mean?” she asked, gathering her courage to ask.

His eyes flitted to her questioningly.

“You wish to understand? Understand what?”

A strangely guarded look came over his dark grey eyes before he spoke.

“Everything,” Jaehaerys said, stopping in place several feet away from the dais and forcing her to do the same. “This place and these people. All of the customs and the strange way that everyone speaks. As if they mean one thing but say another, with courtesies layered into their words that are far from true. I wish that I understood you. That is why I followed you. I hoped to… to understand.”

Sansa stared in shock at the raw, frustrated honesty in his voice. She hadn’t heard someone speak so plainly in years. Perhaps not since the day her father died.

“You are surrounded by liars,” she said, her words hushed so that only he could hear. “Liars and snakes that would gladly tread on one another in their quest for power. It is all they care about.”

Jaehaerys stared at her with a furrowed brow.

“And you?” he asked.

Sansa looked away from him, her eyes flitting around the hall at all those who surrounded him.

“I learned to lie,” she said, refusing to look his way as she spoke. “I had the best teachers. They taught me to play the game.”

Finally looking his way, she shook her head slowly.

“Trust no one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I would love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> I know I promised longer chapters but this one was very hard to churn out for some reason. I promise I will try to have longer chapters from here on out. There is a lot of planned story to get through.
> 
> We're going to get more insights to Jon in the next chapter, as well as an end to the Jaehaerys business, I promise. I'm trying to develop it at a natural pace. I have a very specific backstory in mind for him that will slowly come out the more time Sansa spends with him. You will all see, I promise.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so here's the deal, the original outline that I had for this fic has been completely thrown out the window. I intended to have an intense, angsty, enemies to lovers fic with all that came with it. Instead, it's developed into something more emotional and still angsty but in a different way. So bear with me.
> 
> I know that I keep promising longer chapters but here's the truth: I have a lot of story that I want to tell and I want it to develop organically instead of forcing it. So I'm going to keep going with the flow of this fic and there is a very good chance that it will have a sequel to tell the entire story I want to have.
> 
> Someone asked about ages for Jon and Sansa. In my mind, Sansa is about 19 and Jon is about 22/23.

The color drained from Sansa’s face as soon as she heard mention of a bedding from an exuberant and undoubtedly drunken lord, her fingers tightening around the hand of her husband where they were clasped atop the table in the only show of unity they allowed anyone to see. Jaehaerys‘ head snapped towards her, taking in her pale face and wide eyes before he leaned in to ask what bothered her in a low voice.

Though her mouth suddenly felt rather dry, Sansa managed to describe the tradition in a low voice only to feel his hand wrench from hers. She flinched away as his chair scraped noisily against the floor, fearing that he may demand she submit to the men who would happily tear the clothes from her body. Instead, Sansa saw only disgust and rage in those dark eyes of his as she tilted her head up to see him.

“No.”

The single word carried, all but silencing the laughter and shouts of agreement, calling for the newly wedded couple to submit themselves. Sansa’s lips parted in shock but it was not her hand that reached for him, but rather that of his aunt.

“Nephew?” she said, her eyebrows raised at his reaction.

As he bent over to begin telling her the nature of his upset in furious whispers, Sansa’s eyes darted about the courtiers as her cheeks slowly filled with color at their stares. Some looked quite confident as if they expected the queen to override her nephew’s decree and allow them their fun. Sansa’s stomach twisted at the mere thought of their hands upon her, searching and groping as they cheerily mocked her for the deed that would be done as soon as they deposited her in her new husband’s chambers. Instead, Daenerys rose to her feet and clasped her hands before her with a smile upon her face.

“I will escort my new niece myself,” she announced, leaving no room for argument. “There will be no bedding.”

As groans and muttered curses echoed through the chamber, Sansa saw something dark and dangerous flash through the queen’s pretty eyes. She remembered how the tradition of first rites had been banned in many places and wondered if, being a woman herself, the queen might be convinced to pass a new law banning the practice of bedding as well. Sansa would certainly seek to do so in the North if she had the power for it. No woman deserved such humiliation.

Rising to her feet, she let Daenerys slip an arm through her own and found that she could breathe easier as they took their leave from the hall, the outside air loosening the tightness of her chest before she remembered that there was an entirely new reason to feel nervous. Even if the bedding did not take place, they’d be expected to consummate their union. Sansa was still a maiden yet, in spite of all Baelish’s plans, and had everything to fear from this night. The prince may have seemed an outwardly decent man but she knew better than to trust that.

“My nephew can be difficult,” Daenerys said as if she could read Sansa’s thoughts. “I’m not without sympathy, Lady Stark. I know that the situation is odd for both of you. But I think that you ought to understand Jaehaerys. Our lives have been all too lonely, in many ways, and he has coped with that in the best way he can. We both have.”

Sansa tilted her head towards the queen, her face showing her confusion. She knew that they were raised together in Essos. A less than ideal situation but she’d have expected that, at the very least, they had one another as kin to keep from being too lonely. Daenerys looked at her with understanding, as if she expected Sansa’s misconceptions.

“My brother kept us apart for years, whenever he could,” she admitted, turning her head to keep it forward as they walked at a measured pace towards Maegor’s Holdfast with a company of eight guards. “Viserys had no love for our nephew yet he knew that it was his duty to protect the Targaryen blood that ran through his veins, even if he was a bastard. Yet he would not let us be near to one another. He wanted us isolated. Malleable to his manipulations.”

Daenerys spoke with little affection in her voice, as if the memory of her brother did not quite touch upon her. Sansa, who carried the weight of her lost brothers with her wherever she went, couldn’t imagine feeling so detached to them. Then again, they were as far from Viserys Targaryen as she could imagine, if this was the truth of the man.

“He gave Jaehaerys his Targaryen name and handed him over to those who would teach him to fight. Viserys was no fighter himself, no matter how he liked to think otherwise, and knew at heart that he would need someone loyal to protect us. Someone with blood ties who would need something more than money to protect us. He sought to craft Jaehaerys into the perfect warrior, just as he wanted to make me into a perfect, submissive queen.”

Sansa could read into her words all too easily, thinking back on the years and years of Targaryen monarchs marrying brother to sister.

“Yet he wed you to another,” Sansa said thoughtfully.

Daenerys nodded, the smallest of smiles forming upon her lips.

“He needed an army and without the means to buy one, he used a different type of currency,” she said, speaking with a certain distant aloofness to her voice.

Sansa imagined that, if she were to describe Joffrey to anyone, she would likely speak the same way. Or else she’d have to reckon with his cruelty and submit herself further to the horrors he’d rained upon her.

“Jaehaerys was furious, even though we hadn’t spoken in… in years,” Daenerys said, a far off looking coming over her face as they descended the serpentine steps slowly. “I heard their shouts from my chambers. Viserys threatened to have him killed if he tried to stand in the way of the wedding. He would have done it in the cruelest of ways, I know that. He always blamed Jon for our exile. For our brother’s failings and the war and his mother-”

Daenerys blinked quickly, her eyes darting towards Sansa before moving away just as quickly as she stopped just before the drawbridge that led to the holdfast. Her head ducked towards the ground, her silver-gold hair falling in a curtain about her face. She looked vulnerable. She looked  _ young _ . Sansa felt pity towards this woman for the first time, wondering if she’d be different if her life hadn’t gone the way it did.

“Your Grace?” she said, lifting her hand to reach out.

Yet she had no chance to touch her, watching as Daenerys took a step away and lifted her head, her eyes carefully guarded and a false smile upon her face.

“I should find my way back to the feast,” she said, a determined sound to her voice. “ _ Zokla  _ will depart soon enough and someone ought to preside over it until the end. Ser Jorah will escort you the rest of the way.”

Daenerys tilted her head towards Jorah Mormont, a man that Sansa knew by reputation if not by face. She was aware of his place among the queen’s advisors but had yet to come face to face with him until now. She hadn’t even been aware of his presence until Daenerys brought him forward. They spoke in a low, entirely unfamiliar language that Sansa knew was likely Dothraki until the northern man, a man her father banished for selling criminals to slavers, stepped forward.

“Princess,” he said, allowing her a bow.

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat at the title, though she knew that it belonged to her now. Daenerys gave her an encouraging nod, yet there was something in the depths of her eyes that unsettled her before she turned away, tracing a path back towards the Great Hall with the rest of the guards. Sansa was tempted to order Ser Jorah away, to tell him that she could find the way without him, but the words died upon her lips and she acquiesced without complaint, taking his arm and allowing him to guide her inside.

Unlike her and the queen, they spoke no words as they made their way through the holdfast. He followed her up winding steps and took up her side as they made their way along the corridors. Only when they reached the outer door to the prince’s chambers did she hear him inhale just loudly enough to indicate that he intended to speak. Sansa hesitated with her hand upon the door, turning her head towards him. Did he have something to say of her father? A disparaging remark since he was the man to accuse him of the crimes that chased him from Westeros?

“I knew your father,” Ser Jorah said, his eyes holding hers unflinchingly. “And I know the prince. I’ve spent years fighting alongside him and I could pick him out as a Stark even if he had the Targaryen look. His mother’s blood runs deep within him, my lady.”

Sansa realized, much to her surprise, that his words were meant to reassure her. He knew that it was the only measure of comfort she would receive before her husband joined her. It was the most that he could offer her, comparing Jaehaerys to her father. He may have resented Ned Stark but there was no questioning his honor, even to his very bitter end. She allowed him a nod, acknowledging his words.

“Thank you, Ser Jorah,” Sansa said quietly.

He lingered for a moment before nodding his head as well, lowering himself into a bow once more. His steps faded away as she looked to the door before her, her chest growing tight as she warily pushed the door open. The outer chamber was rather plain, with possessions scattered about like she saw in Daenerys’ chambers. Apart from a pair of riding boots set by the door and a day-to-day cloak draped over a chair by the hearth, she couldn’t pick out a single thing to suggest that someone actually lived there.

Her steps carried her further in, her hands wringing together nervously. There was nothing to distract her. No books of any sort to thumb through. Sansa moved towards the door that led off to a balcony, her shaking hands unlatching it. Wind from the bay whipped at her hair as she stepped out, breathing in deeply. Her hands settled upon the stone railing, the distant rush of waves reaching her ears as she tilted her head back and let her eyes fall closed. She let herself focus what she could feel and hear, letting her worried thoughts fade away on the wind as she leaned forward ever so slightly.

Time may have passed slowly or quickly or not at all, for all she knew as she stood there. The sound of the door opening and, after a long moment, shutting again didn’t even register in her mind. Sansa let herself imagine that she was anywhere else, far away in a distant land. It was the sort of fantasy she never allowed herself anymore, knowing that the world was too bitter for such flighty thoughts. Yet she let herself get lost in it all the same, imagining a villa on the sea where all of her cares were out of sight and out of mind.

Then she heard the scuffle of a boot over the floor and the creak of the balcony door. Her head turned quickly, her eyes settling upon the shadowed form of her husband as he hovered just in the doorway. There was a conflicted look upon his face and his hand was half lifted from his side as if he thought to pull her away from the railing. Sansa imagined how this must look, remembering Queen Helaena, who could not bear the loss of her children and threw herself from this very holdfast.

She leaned away from the railing, watching as his eyes flit over her before his hand dropped to his side once more. Sansa brushed her hair from her face, waiting for him to speak as she remained perfectly still, his cloak about her shoulders warding off the night’s chill. When he stepped out, Sansa simply watched and waited as his eyes scanned over the distant water, beyond which was the land where he grew from child to man. She thought of Daenerys’ words then, wondering if he ever did the same when he lived in Essos, peering out over the Narrow Sea towards Westeros in all his loneliness.

“You said…” he trailed off as his eyes remained distant, his head turned away from her. “You said that you had teachers.”

Sansa pressed her lips together, turning to gaze out at the sea as well. She might have guessed that he’d be curious about her cryptic words. It was as he said, he was simply trying to understand. Sansa felt for him, that he was raised so far from the poisonous court only to find himself in the middle of it rather abruptly. If Daenerys was to be believed, he was raised to be a fighter, not a prince. His gift to her made far more sense in the wake of such a revelation. A dagger would be appropriate for a man who was raised in the midst of violence. She had to master a different sort of weapon in the search for survival.

“I did,” Sansa said, nodding her head. “I wouldn’t be alive if not for their lessons.”

She spoke the words regretfully, though she knew that they were true. Moments passed in silence before he spoke again.

“These lessons were not kindly meant, I assume.”

Sansa exhaled slowly, shaking her head.

“Why does it matter?” she asked, turning to look at him again.

Jaehaerys met her gaze this time, his eyes blazing with something she didn’t understand.

“I heard stories,” he said, stepping closer to her. “Songs of Westeros. Old tales that made it all seem… better. Where fear and darkness didn’t reign over all. A place where a man or a woman could find happiness.”

Sansa’s lips parted in surprise, her first thought that he was incredibly naive to think so. Then she remembered her own dreams, from what felt like a different lifetime. The songs that lived in her head. The fantasies that she let herself live in until they were crushed beneath the cruel heel of fate. She could see how a lonely boy with nothing at all might dream of a better world. A boy who deserved more than what he was given.

“Jaehaerys,” she said, pronouncing his name upon her tongue for the first time.

It didn’t seem right, not only for her but for him as well. He seemed to flinch at the very sound of it and Sansa wondered if he did so every time he heard it. Was that why Daenerys gave him a different name? A Valyrian name to call back to his Stark heritage? Not to maintain his claim upon the North but to do him a kindness and not use such a name? A name that his cruel uncle gave to him to keep a claim over him? Something occurred to Sansa, a brief thought that took root as words rose to her lips quite without permission.

“My aunt,” she said, inching closer to him. “She gave you another name, didn’t she?”

The prince blinked with surprise, as if he wondered how she could know such a thing.

“She did,” he said after a moment, nodding his head.

Sansa looked him over, from the vulnerable look in his eyes to his uncertain posture and the way his hand clenched the railing that separated them from the open air. Reaching out slowly, she let her hand settle over his own, exhaling softly at the feeling of his warm skin upon her own. It felt odd, as if she was exposing a part of herself that had been buried away within her for so long.

She realized in that moment how truly lonely she’d been ever since her father’s death. It was one thing to know it and quite another to feel it deep in her bones. She was just like this man before her in a way. Lifting her head, she met his gaze once more and saw a profound longing there. Sansa brushed her thumb over his hand, watching his lips part as his eyes darted over her face, searching for something.

“Would you…” Sansa trailed off, squeezing his hand lightly.

She feared to ask the question, knowing that he may well refuse her. Yet he blinked quickly and seemed to lean in closer, his hand slowly turning to grasp hers in return.

“Jon.”

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat, the name filling her mind and repeating again and again. It fit him well, far better than any other she’d heard. Not Jaehaerys. Not Zokla. Jon. It felt right.

“Jon,” she repeated, watching as a spark of something indefinable filled his eyes. “We’ve both endured difficult lessons, I think.”

He stared at her for a moment longer before closing the distance between them, lifting his hand hesitantly as if he feared that she might pull away. Sansa remained still, waiting for what he might do. When his hand fit gently over her cheek, his fingers touching upon her hair and his thumb brushing over her skin softly, she found herself leaning into his touch without thinking. Only when she felt the press of his forehead against hers did she allow her eyes to fall closed, a part of her relishing in the gentle touch.

Yet she still feared that it would turn sour. That he would reveal him to be as horrible as the other men who touched her. Whose hands wandered and kisses were forced upon her. Petyr. Marillion. Dontos. Joffrey. Yet Jon remained still, breathing her in as he seemed to relish in the intimate moment just as much as her. Lifting her hand, she closed her fingers around his wrist yet could not bring herself to pull his hand away, her breaths matching his in pace as she stroked her thumb over his warm skin.

“I will honor you,” he whispered, a reverent sound to his voice as if he pronounced them as vows. “I will protect you.”

Sansa’s heart fluttered at his words and she could feel a part of herself, a part she thought lost forever, fill with longing. The consuming need to believe him. Yet she could not bring herself to cross that line. Not when she’d been wrong before. Not when she’d been hurt before. She said nothing yet he leaned away all the same, sensing her hesitation. Her eyes opened only to see the awareness reflected in his own.

“You don’t believe me,” Jon said.

She swallowed hard, trying to scrape her courtesies together. To remember how she might placate him into believing otherwise. Yet she could not bring herself to shield herself now, beneath his watchful gaze. Not when he’d been truthful with her.

“I can’t,” Sansa whispered, feeling almost ashamed at the truth of it.

He nodded, no trace of surprise upon his face.

“I’ll have to prove it to you, then.”

She couldn’t help but blink with surprise, her body mourning loss of warmth and touch as he stepped out of her reach. Turning away, it looked very much as if he was on the verge of leaving her entirely.

“Wait,” Sansa called out, stopping him in place.

“We-we have our duty,” she said, her cheeks growing hot even at the insinuation of what they must do.

Jon’s face grew hard at her words and he shook his head, determination in his gaze.

“No.”

With that single word, as powerful as when he uttered it over hundreds of feasting nobles, Jon left her alone upon his balcony. She heard the sound of the door shutting even as her eyes stung with tears. Tears that she did not understand. In any other situation, she might have rejoiced at a husband refusing to take his rights. She certainly felt relieved when Tyrion declined to bed her. Yet she felt almost empty, a cold feeling washing over her as she realized once more that she was entirely alone.

*****

As the day dawned and she woke to the feeling of a hand upon her shoulder, Sansa woke with a gasp in an entirely unfamiliar bed. It took a moment for everything to come flooding back. The wedding. The feast. The balcony. Last she remembered, she’d made her way into Jon’s bedchamber numbly, stripping away her gown and wrapping herself in his cloak before she fell upon his bed to sleep. Yet she was under the furs now, his cloak nowhere to be seen and Teya’s face hovering before her with concern in her eyes.

“Your Highness,” she said, sinking into a curtsy as Sansa slowly sat up.

“What happened?” Sansa breathed out, her brow furrowing in confusion.

Her handmaiden looked at her oddly, as if she wasn’t entirely certain how to answer. Jon must have returned and, without waking her, maneuvered her beneath the furs. But had he slept there himself? The other side of the bed seemed rumpled enough.

“I brought a dressing gown for you,” Teya said, holding out the deep blue gown in offering.

Sansa pushed the furs away, rising from the mattress. She allowed Teya to help her, lifting her hair out from beneath the collar of the dress before belting it at her waist. Before she could step away to don the slippers that Teya brought as well, her eyes caught on something. A scarlet smear in the middle of the otherwise white sheets on the bed. She stared with wide eyes, her heart faltering in her chest as a chill ran through her. Her legs quite suddenly felt weak, as if she could not hold her own weight.

“It’s entirely normal,” Teya said, reaching out to steady her.

She nodded slowly, knowing that it looked inconsequential to the handmaiden. Evidence of their wedding night and nothing more. Yet to Sansa, it was far more. One of Cersei’s many pearls of wisdom, poured out amidst endless glasses of wine, was the true nature of a woman’s first time with a man between her legs. Sansa felt no ache there as the long-dead queen suggested she might, yet she feared the sight of the bloodstain all the same. Surely she would have woken. Surely she would remember.

_ I will honor you. _

Sansa grasped at his words, not wanting to believe the truth that the stain suggested. She turned away with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, forcing herself to move. She knew that she could not bear another moment of staring at it, unable to understand how it came to pass. It was only when she found herself invited to Daenerys’ chambers to break her fast that she had the chance to know the truth of it. She approached warily, bathed and dressed in a pale green gown with her hair braided in one simple plait along her spine, hearing the mutter of voices through the open door.

Daenerys was not alone, that much was clear. Tyrion sat with her, a cup of wine in his hand and a mild smile upon his face. Yet it was not him or the queen that drew her eyes, but the man who stood near to the window, a distant look on his own face. Jon’s head turned as soon as she stepped through the door, his eyes finding her as if he sensed her approach. Sansa gazed back at him, searching his face for the truth. Yet she saw nothing, her attention taken away when Tyrion rose to his feet.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing to her with a glint in his eyes.

Sansa knew that there was no need for her to curtsy to him, for she outranked him now, yet she did all the same, instinct driving her as her heart raced in her chest. She saw Jon approaching from the corner of her eye, rounding the table to come to her side. Daenerys watched them with keen eyes and it was beneath her gaze that Sansa turned to greet her husband. Before she could even curtsy, he reached up to cup the back of her head in a gentle hold, pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek.

“Wife,” he said, pulling away and offering the same hand to her.

Sansa bowed her head to him, slipping her hand into his.

“Husband,” she murmured, allowing him to lead her to a chair.

He sat next to her once she was settled. Sansa’s cheeks grew pink as she glanced towards Tyrion and Daenerys self-consciously only to see them watching with amused expressions upon their faces. She looked away just as quickly, piling food upon her plate at Daenerys’ wordless invitation. Though she could hardly taste any of it, she dutifully placed bites in her mouth and listened to the conversation that floated about her, mostly coming from the queen and her Hand.

“What happened to your hand, Your Highness?” Tyrion asked after a long time.

Lowering the strawberry that she nibbled upon, Sansa looked to him with confusion only to realize that he spoke to Jon. Her eyes cut towards him, falling upon his left hand that was wrapped in a hastily made bandage that may well have been torn from a tunic. It certainly wasn’t the work of a maester. Her eyes widened at the sight of it, something fitting together in her mind that she couldn’t quite place.

“I injured it in the training yard this morning,” Jon said, a careless sound to his voice as if it was a regularity.

Yet his eyes lifted from his plate as Tyrion and Daenerys moved onto other things, fixing upon her. It took a moment for the realization to dawn upon her. The blood on the sheets. The wound on his hand. The casual manner in which he dismissed it, clearly not wanting to call attention to it. Sansa kept the shock from her face, carefully managing her expression as she dropped her eyes to her plate once more.

_ I will protect you. _

A smile ghosted over her lips and she quickly covered it with a long sip from her sweetened wine, wondering if, for the first time in many years, she might have found someone to believe in once more. As the meal drew to a close, Daenerys called Sansa back as Tyrion and Jon moved towards the door. Exchanging a glance with the younger of the men, she gave Jon a single nod before looking to the queen, who had a strange glint in her eyes, as if she saw something that she disliked in the brief exchange.

“Your Grace?” Sansa said once they were gone, leaving her alone with the other woman.

“I do not know if you’ve been informed of the repairs to your family home,” Daenerys said, moving them both away from the table as servants came to clear it. “But the castle will not be ready for another month at least. It would be wise for you to remain in King’s Landing for a time, not just out of necessity but for the people to see a unified royal family. The stability will be good for all to witness.”

Sansa felt disappointment rise in her chest yet she kept it from her face, nodding her head.

“Your words are wise,’ she said, feigning agreement.

Daenerys tilted her head to the side ever so slightly, as if she sized Sansa up.

“Your regency over the Vale has been marked with compliments. You have a clever mind and we ought to put that to use. You will be given a place on my council for the duration of your stay in King’s Landing.”

Unable to help her surprise, Sansa blinked several times before lowering herself into a curtsy.

“You honor me, Your Grace,” she said, quite unsure of what to think of it.

“The honor is mine,” Daenerys said, another of her sweet smiles taking form upon her face. “I have a feeling that your counsel will be invaluable.”

Sansa forced a smile upon her face, a part of her wondering what sort of game this queen sought to play. She was entirely unlike Cersei, it was true. Yet there was something that nudged in at the edge of her mind, an unmistakable feeling of wariness that called for her to be careful.

“I will strive to live up to your expectations.”

Daenerys seemed satisfied by her words, dismissing her with a nod towards the door.

“I will have you fetched for the next council session,” Daenerys said.

Sansa bowed her head to her before turning towards the door, feeling no less tense as she stepped out into the corridor. Then she saw the figure leaning against the wall mere feet away, his head tilted towards her and his arms crossed over his chest. A curious relief unfurled in her chest as she walked to him and watched as he straightened.

“Did you hear?” Sansa asked, looking up into his eyes.

Jon nodded slowly, offering her his arm. She took it willingly, aware of the guards with their listening ears and watchful eyes. They walked away at an even pace, moving neither slowly nor quickly as they traced the familiar path to her own chambers. Sansa felt highly aware of him, questions filling her mind. Yet she did not voice a single one, letting the silence stretch on until they reached her door. Pausing there, she turned to face him, her hand lifting so that her fingers could brush over the bandage on his hand.

“Come inside,” she said quietly.

It was not a request yet he nodded all the same, letting her lead him inside. Sansa took him all the way to her bed, closing every door between them and the corridor before nodding at him to sit on the edge of her mattress. Jon said nothing, his eyes upon her as she stood before him and slowly unwrapped the bandage. She was no stranger to wounds and so did not flinch when she saw the angry red cut upon his palm, scabbed over and still bleeding in spots. It was clear to her eyes that it was made by a dagger, likely in the dark, and likely squeezed in his fist to drip blood upon his own sheets.

Sansa moved away before she could stare too long, grabbing a washing cloth to wet in the basin of water that stood near the bed, wringing it out before crossing to him once more. She cleaned it carefully, listening for any hiss of pain. Jon didn’t even cringe, holding his hand out steadily. Sansa concentrated on her task, her teeth sinking into her lower lip as she ensured that it was cleaned before bundling the bloodstained cloth with the bandage. She knew that it would have to be covered again and so sought out an older shift, tearing away a strip. Her hands wrapped it far better than he managed, tight enough to keep pressure on the wound and tied neatly to ensure it wouldn’t fall away.

Only then did she look up, meeting his eyes. Jon stared back at her, something inexplicably tender in his gaze, along with a deep sense of bewilderment. For all the scars she knew he had, Sansa wondered if anyone ever cared for him when he was wounded or if his life was filled with treating himself. Lifting her hand, she carefully settled it over his cheek and her heart stuttered as he leaned his face into her touch much like she’d done the previous night. Emotions welled within her, taking hold and refusing to release her.

“Thank you,” Sansa whispered, her voice trembling ever so slightly with the strength of her gratitude.

For as much as she was tied to him by the blood that marked the sheets, he’d shielded her with his actions. Jon didn’t answer, his head slowly dropping until he pressed his forehead to her middle. His wounded hand rose, clasping over her hip as he breathed her in. Sansa closed her eyes, her fingers curling into his hair. And they simply stayed there, neither moving at all, letting the moment stretch on and on. It was enough. It was everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You are all blowing me away with your response to this. I can't even express how grateful I am for it. Thank you so so much. I would love to hear more of your fantastic comments, if you're willing to drop one. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love you all so much. Just so so much. I'd usually try to respond to all comments but since I'm trying to focus on getting these chapters cranked out, I haven't had much time to answer. But I am reading every single one and they have all made me so unbelievably happy.
> 
> I really hope that you all like this chapter. It might be my favorite so far.

Sansa never had reason to visit the council chamber when Joffrey was king. Two helmed guards stood at the door, saying nothing to block her approach. Within, the long table took up most of the space. Several others were already seated, among them Lord Tyrion and Lord Varys as well as the leader of Daenerys’ armies, Grey Worm, and Jorah Mormont. A woman stood by a window, her dark eyes falling upon Sansa first. Her thick hair was braided into a dark rope over her shoulder and she wore a near diaphanous gown of pale lilac. Her wine red lips curved into a silken smile as her eyes flitted over Sansa.

“Your Highness,” Tyrion stood, the first to verbally acknowledge her presence.

The others did the same, all bowing to her. Sansa felt odd, knowing that it was the reaction that her new rank demanded yet unused to such deference.

“My lords,” she said, lowering herself into a curtsy. “My lady.”

“Not quite,” the woman said, keeping her chin lifted as she offered a graceful curtsy in return.

“This is Nymeria Sand, Princess,” Jorah said.

Sansa gave her another look, realizing exactly who this was. She had little of her father’s looks in her face, from what Sansa could remember, yet there was something in her eyes that resembled the Red Viper. She knew that Dorne assisted Daenerys in taking back the throne and so felt little surprise that they were represented on the council but would have never imagined the representative to be one of the many bastard daughters of Oberyn Martell.

“My sister loved Nymeria,” Sansa said without thinking overmuch, remembering that she was one of the few women of history that Arya admired.

“She was a woman worthy of admiration,” Nymeria acknowledged.

Nodding in agreement, Sansa stepped further into the room as she heard approaching footsteps behind her.

“I believe that our queen designated a spot to her left for you, Princess,” Tyrion said, gesturing to the seat opposite his own.

Sansa blinked with surprise, hardly expecting that she’d be given such a seat of importance. Yet she made her way to it all the same, hesitating to sit only when she saw movement from the corner of her eye. She watched as none other than Garlan Tyrell entered the room, closely followed by Grand Maester Corren, a man far more suited to the post than Pycelle from what Sansa heard. They both greeted Sansa first of anyone, Ser Garlan going so far as to cross over and take her hand in his, dropping a courtly kiss to the back of it.

“I can comfortably speak on behalf of my family and offer our relief at your health and our congratulations at your marriage, Your Highness.”

Sansa remembered that he’d been kind to her all those years ago and found it easy to summon a small smile.

“You have my thanks, ser,” she said, clasping her hands before her. “I hope that your family is in good health.”

“They are quite well, thank you,” Garlan said, looking as if he wanted to speak further when they heard the approaching sound of Daenerys and her company of guards.

With a bow of his head, he stepped away and found his place, standing just behind his chair as they awaited the queen. When Daenerys entered the room, Sansa lowered herself into a curtsy along with the rest.

“You may sit.”

Daenerys rounded the table as they did just that, taking her place at the head of it. Missandei stood just behind her as several of her handmaidens began serving wine to everyone.

“My good-niece is here to lend her thoughts though she has no official capacity here,” Daenerys announced to the rest, nodding towards Sansa. “Her capable regency of the Vale has more than qualified her for the role.”

There was no argument from those who sat around the table. Sansa heard rumors that Daenerys outlawed the Kingsguard, citing a history of corruption and dishonor, yet it still surprised her to see no Lord Commander at the table. Tyrion was the Hand, his pin shining upon his chest, and Lord Varys had taken up his former post of Master of Whisperers. Garlan Tyrell undoubtedly took up the post of Master of Ships, a post which his father once held, and she felt confident that Ser Jorah was the Master of Laws. That left Nymeria Sand as Master of Coin as well as the Dornish representative.

Yet Sansa felt surprised that Jon was not there. It was not customary but Daenerys hardly reigned over a traditional court. He must have played a central role in the war, for all of his fighting skills and for the blood he shared with Daenerys. Beyond that, he was to be the King in the North. His absence was glaring. Sansa couldn’t help but wonder why the queen invited her and not Jon. Did the others not see it as odd or did they just refrain from questioning her? Perhaps they knew something that she did not. Sansa didn’t doubt that Daenerys kept things from her. For all that she professed unity and family, Daenerys likely trusted Sansa as much as she trusted her.

“Lord Tyrion?” Daenerys said, inviting him to speak first.

“I have little to report, Your Grace. Trade throughout the realm has been reestablished quite well, with the exception of the North. I am certain that your nephew and his wife will see to that when they take up residence there,” Tyrion said, nodding to Sansa. “Lord Commander Stark of the Night’s Watch is holding Castle Black well against the wildlings but he seeks help through gold and new bodies to man the Wall.”

Daenerys’ eyes flitted to Sansa.

“Your kin?” she asked, tilting her head to the side.

Sansa nodded, a tight feeling in her chest. She didn’t know that a new Lord Commander had been elected, much less her own relation.

“My uncle,” she said, briefly thinking of Benjen. “He is a good man. Incredibly loyal to the Night’s Watch, from what I can remember. They were always lacking in men. My father sent as many as he could and instructed the other Northern houses to do the same.”

“We will send missives to every region,” Daenerys said, her attention falling upon Grand Maester Corren. “Any able-bodied man willing to volunteer will be sent as well as any criminals in castle dungeons.”

The maester nodded, scribbling out the command upon a piece of parchment where he would keep detailed notes of the meeting to add to his records. Sansa remembered that Maester Luwin would do the same for any meeting of import he attended with her father.

“Lord Garlan?” the queen said, moving on.

“The royal navy is at half-strength, Your Grace. As you well know, many of your ships were destroyed by Euron Greyjoy in the war and we have been unable to reinstate the navy to your former strength.”

“What do you need?” Daenerys asked.

“Lumber, for one,” Garlan said.

“Can the Reach offer nothing?” Tyrion asked.

Garlan’s eyes settled upon Tyrion, narrowing ever so slightly.

“Your sister’s armies burned through much of our land when she sent her men to attack Highgarden, including our forests. We are still recovering and our focus is on harvesting wheat, not planting trees.”

“The North has lumber,” Sansa said, sensing a possible argument brewing between the men. “A message to White Harbor will likely yield the first shipment in good faith. The prince and I can plan for more once we arrive in Winterfell.”

Garlan looked to Daenerys as she looked to Tyrion, who gave Sansa a look of consideration.

“It should be penned in your own hand,” he said decidedly. “Lord Manderly has proven less than willing to maintain relations with the south. The daughter of Ned Stark may sway him to consider the best interest of everyone.”

Sansa waited for Daenerys to give an approving nod before agreeing to write the letter.

“The Iron Bank wishes to collect on the crown’s debt,” Nymeria Sand said without needing to be called upon.

The queen stiffened in her seat, her hands dropping from the table to her lap as they curled into fists.

“That is not my debt to pay,” Daenerys said in a low voice.

“They maintain that it is your duty to pay it out all the same,” Nymeria said, a layer of amusement in her voice.

Anger flitted through Daenerys’ eyes as she set her shoulders and lifted her chin.

“I will not pay the debt of my usurpers,” she said, her voice leaving little room for argument. “If the Iron Bank wishes to push the matter further, their representatives are welcome to come to my shores to take the money themselves. My children will be happy to greet them.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Nymeria said, looking positively thrilled at the idea of writing such a letter to the Iron Bank of Braavos.

Daenerys leaned back in her seat, lifting her cup to her lips to take a long sip.

“There is the matter of another wedding, Your Grace,” Lord Varys spoke, his voice as calm and measured as always. “Rumor is spreading throughout the realm that you intend to take a foreign husband. The people, both noble and common, are understandably unsettled by the thought.”

“And why would the people concern themselves with who I wed? Daenerys asked, her eyes growing narrow once more.

Varys did not answer, gazing at her with a look in his eyes that bordered on frustration.

“There is the matter of succession, my queen,” Tyrion spoke up, saving Varys from having to come up with something to say. “The people naturally wonder what will become of Westeros in the years to come.”

“We have spoken of this before,” Daenerys said coolly.

Sansa didn’t have to hear the specifics of such conversations to know that they’d been as tense as this one and offered no true resolution.

“And yet we have come to no decision,” Tyrion said, confirming her thoughts.

She felt Daenerys’ eyes upon her before she looked up, meeting her gaze warily. There was something hidden away in those violet eyes. An unspoken intent that Sansa couldn’t identify, yet it made her skin crawl all the same. Then Daenerys looked away, rising from her seat without care that she only just sat. The hard look upon her face kept them all in their seats.

“I am your queen,” she said, looking at each of them individually. “There is nothing more to know.”

Before a single one of them could rise to bow, she swept away from the table. It was all rather abrupt from Sansa’s eyes, stirring up feelings of shock and famliarity in her chest as she watched Daenerys leave them without another word. In that moment, with the remnants of her anger still resonating in the room, the queen reminded Sansa of Joffrey, who despised hearing things he didn’t like as well. Looking at Lord Tyrion over the table, Sansa met his mismatched gaze, sensing his weariness. She had the feeling that this wasn’t the first time that Daenerys left a council meeting in such a manner. It most certainly would not be the last.

*****

Sansa crossed the castle grounds on her own and at a rather leisurely pace. She didn’t quite wish to return to her chambers and felt little need to visit the gardens on her own. She toyed with the idea of going to the godswood until she heard the ring of steel colliding. Her attention fell upon the training yard, where knights, squires, and castle servants alike were gathered to watch the activity within the fenced area. Sansa felt strangely drawn to the commotion, her feet guiding her ever closer until she saw the sparring session happening within.

Her breath caught in her throat for many reasons, the first of which being the identity of one of the men who practiced. His dark hair gave him away all too easily, pulled away from his face to reveal the set of determination there. One of his hands held a sword and the other a straight, long dagger. They weren’t the blunted training swords that Sansa remembered Robb and Theon using as Ser Rodrick trained them, but rather live steel. She couldn’t justify why he would tempt such a dangerous outcome, yet he used it all the same.

It might not have been quite as anxiety-inducing if he weren’t facing against not one but two men, ducking, twisting, and dancing his way through the fight. They all breathed heavily, their cheeks red with exertion, yet they showed no sign of stopping. It was no doubt a test of endurance as well as skill. Sansa wound her fingers into her skirts nervously, aware of the attention that fell upon her as she watched her husband quite successfully hold his own against the other two men. Even the wound upon his hand, still wrapped in bandage she placed over it, did not seem to hold him back.

She hadn’t seen him since that quiet moment between them, though it was only yesterday. Even when she presented herself in his chambers as night fell, he simply pressed a kiss to her forehead, grabbed a fur from the bed, and resigned himself to the adjoining chamber to sleep upon the chaise lounge there. None would suspect a thing and, just as he promised, she remained protected within his chambers. Sansa didn’t know quite how she felt about it, though she found herself tempted to trust his words. To believe that he truly sought to honor and protect her. It was dangerous yet altogether true.

“He is formidable.”

Sansa glanced away from Jon only briefly to watch as Tyrion stepped up next to her, his eyes fixed upon the fight.

“Indeed,” she said, looking to Jon once more.

“How do you think our brothers might have fared against him?”

Sansa hesitated, thinking of Robb and his boundless energy. His joy at practicing day after day, bettering himself beneath Ser Rodrick’s instruction. Yet his teachings could not measure up, that much she knew. At least not before the war he fought. She couldn’t speak to the man he became. The king.

“Robb wouldn’t have stood a chance,” she said, shaking her head. “Not as I knew him.”

“Jaime was the best fighter I ever knew,” Tyrion said, sharp inhales rising up around them as Jon knocked one of the men to his back and advanced on the other without hesitation, engaging him with quick thrusts and jabs that were almost impossible to keep up with. “I once vowed that I would never bet against my own brother but I’m not certain that he could have withstood our prince even at his best.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask what happened to Jaime Lannister, for she last saw him at Joffrey’s ill-fated wedding, yet before she could muster a single word, all movement within the yard grew still as Jon held the tip of his dagger to his last opponent’s throat. A throat that he could easily open with a flick of his wrist. Everyone waited with bated breath, relaxing all too easily when they heard the man yield. Jon stepped away, sheathing the dagger first before doing the same with his sword.

As he turned around to accept a rag tossed his way, he barely even wiped the sweat from his brow before his eyes fell upon Sansa. They seemed to grow even darker at the sight of her, a hunger deep within their depths that tugged  _ hard _ at something within her. Something that she did not understand yet made her feel imbalanced and far too warm all at once. Sansa couldn’t tear her eyes from his, watching as he wiped at his skin. Only when he turned around once more did she feel released, the air escaping from her in a rush as she shook her head slightly. 

Jon laid his attention upon the two men and he grasped their arms one at a time, likely thanking them and complimenting their ability. Sansa let her eyes linger upon the tunic, faded and worn as it was. She felt the need to replace it, knowing that she could sew him a few shirts in a single day. Only then did he step out of the training yard, taking a skin of water from a boy to drink of it greedily. His eyes were upon Sansa once more, unrelenting and inviting once more. She felt drawn in, as if his stare pulled at an unseen string that connected them. Tilting her head towards Tyrion for a brief moment, she offered him a bow of her head and nothing more.

“Excuse me, my lord,” Sansa said.

If Tyrion said anything in response, she didn’t hear a single word of it. Her feet carried her towards Jon and she found herself checking him over for any injuries. He didn’t even seem to have a scratch.

“Is it not dangerous for our prince to train with live steel?” Sansa asked as she neared him.

Jon’s eyes flitted over her face, as if he was attempting to judge the motivation of her question.

“It feels different in your hand,” he said, his voice slightly rougher than usual. “I’ve never known a man to carry a blunted weapon to battle.”

Sansa took his offered arm, not even wrinkling her nose at the smell of exertion that wafted from him.

“You are not in Essos,” she said, quietly enough that only he could hear as he guided her away from the crowd behind them. “The war has been won. There is no need to fight that way anymore.”

She tried not to say outright that a part of her felt frightened at the sight of him and the others wielding such dangerous weapons in the name of practice. Though she resented the prospect of marrying him and though she wasn’t quite sure what to think of it now and whether to trust him or not, Sansa had no idea where she would be without him. Daenerys wouldn’t give her the North alone. She’d be wed off to someone else. Perhaps Ser Jorah, who was from the North, or another of her allies. As she looked to Jon, hoping that he wouldn’t be angry at her words, all that she could see was uncertainty there.

“Unless there is,” Sansa said, frowning ever so slightly as they made their way towards the holdfast. “Why do you fight, Jon?”

His head turned, his eyes darting away so that she could no longer see the truth in their depths. Though it was clearly difficult for him to hide his emotions, remaining silent wasn’t hard for him at all. Dread crashed through her like a wave, consuming her almost completely. Whatever Jon knew, whatever he kept from her, she had no doubt that it was dangerous. And she somehow knew that it had everything to do with Daenerys Targaryen, their queen.

*****

Her steps were determined, carrying her through the corridor as she held her head high. It took a bit of balancing for her to knock upon the door when she reached it but once it opened, Sansa swept past Jon without a word and set the chest in her arms upon his table with a clunk. The door shut behind her as she steeled herself, inhaling deeply before turning to face him. He’d bathed since leaving her at her chambers, his hair free from the tie and his clothing now clean.

“You gave this to me,” she said, brushing her fingers over the top of the chest.

Jon nodded, though he looked almost uncomfortable at the mention of it. Did he fear that she disliked the gift? That she might have been returning it? Sansa did not intend to do anything of the sort, staring at him for a long moment before opening the chest.

“I fear that it is wasted on me,” she admitted, her hand closing around the intricate hilt. “I hardly know how to use it.”

Sansa turned to face him, her heart fluttering nervously in her chest as she took a step towards him, then another.

“Not yet, that is,” she said.

It took a moment for realization to hit him, his eyes moving from her to the dagger and back several times.

“You want…” Jon trailed off, looking as if he couldn’t quite believe it.

Sansa considered her words carefully, knowing that saying the wrong thing could be incredibly dangerous if he wasn’t the man that she was rapidly coming to believe him to be. If he’d tricked her all this time, she could very well be giving her life into his hands. Yet she couldn’t help but remember his first confession, that he’d have helped her if she wished to flee. She had to put her trust in him, even if it felt entirely unnatural. Even if it felt as if it may be the death of her. For she had no one else that she could trust. Only this man who had shielded her with his cloak, shed his blood for her, and given her his true name when few others knew it.

“I hate this place,” Sansa said, the words coming out in a rush. “It has been a city of horrors for me time and time again. I didn’t have any means of protecting myself before. My only shield was my words and I used them however I could to protect myself, even if I had to lie. Even if I had to denounce the people I loved most. I had to survive but my weapons were few.”

She lifted her head, looking into his eyes only to see traces of anger reflected back at her.

“Something is going on here, something that I do not yet understand, but I won’t be unprepared again,” Sansa said, lifting her chin. “If there is a fight, I will arm myself better than before. I am not my sister, who relished in the thought of wielding blades and drawing blood, but I will learn all the same. It is not what I want but I believe that it is what I must do.”

Her hand gripped the hilt as she drew the dagger from its sheath, the low evening light from the windows reflecting from the smooth, sharp blade as she held it up, her hand shaking ever so slightly.

“Will you teach me?” Sansa asked.

Jon stared at her for a long moment, his eyes alight with something dark and somewhat dangerous, yet nothing that caused her to falter. Then he moved quickly, quicker than she could have expected, crossing to her in an instant. She nearly gasped at his sudden movement, her head tilting up to hold his gaze as his hand slowly rose to wrap around hers on the hilt of the dagger. She could feel the scrape of his bandage against her skin, a shiver rising within her at his touch.

“Here.”

He lifted her hand, slowly and deliberately until it was poised at his throat in the same spot where he pointed his own blade upon the man in the yard mere hours before.

“You strike here every time.”

Sansa swallowed hard, her eyes darting from his face to the dagger and back before she spoke.

“There must be more to it than that,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jon released her all at once, taking two long steps back before gesturing to her.

“Try to attack me.”

Sansa’s eyes grew wide at the very thought of it.

“How?”

“Use your instincts,” Jon told her.

She felt as if his advice could have been  _ more _ , yet she had no idea what to say. So she gripped the dagger tight in her hand and lunged forward, her skirts whipping about her legs as she moved towards him clumsily. His hand caught her wrist all too easily, spinning her about as his other hand wrenched the dagger from her palm. Sansa found herself pressed against him, her back to his chest as she inhaled sharply. He’d disarmed her all too easily, managing to put her in an unbreakable hold with the cool metal of the dagger resting upon the sensitive skin of her neck. Yet she did not panic, to her utter surprise, remaining perfectly still in his arms.

“Again,” he said, his breath washing over her skin as he whispered the word into her ear.

Sansa could barely react to the feeling before she felt the dagger pressed into her hand again. Jon spun her away, causing her to stumble a few steps before righting herself. He stood exactly where he had before, entirely unruffled whereas she felt completely undone by their close, brief proximity as well as the slightest thrill that came from what they were doing.

“You could tell me how,” Sansa said, holding the dagger tight in her grip once more.

He simply tilted his head to the side, wordlessly challenging her to try and attack him once more. This time she brought the blade over her head, intending to swing it in a downward arc that she already knew he’d block. He seized both of her wrists in his hands, drawing her in close as his eyes glinted with some wild, dark emotion that she couldn’t quite place. Jon pulled her in close to him once more, his face mere inches away from hers. Sansa expected to hear some sort of instruction from him but he only repeated the same.

“Again.”

So it went. Every time she tried to come at him a different way, he caught her with little effort and commanded that she do it again. And again and again and again. Eventually, she felt her frustration getting the best of her as her hair began coming undone from her braid, sweat trickling down the side of her neck and her gown feeling far too heavy and constricting. Sansa wrenched herself away from him when he took hold of her yet again, slamming the dagger down upon the table.

“This is pointless,” she said, her voice carrying as she braced her hands upon her hips, breathing in and out heavily.

Sansa glowered at Jon, wondering if he didn’t take her request seriously since he’d given her absolutely no instruction.

“It isn’t a game,” he said in a low, even voice.

“I know that,” she countered, her words sharp. “But if you could at least try to teach me how you were taught and then-”

“No.”

Jon’s voice cut through the air like a knife, hard and unyielding.

“Why?” Sansa demanded, hating the tears that sprung to her eyes even if they were born of anger and desperation.

“Because I will not expose you to that,” he said, stepping towards her.

“I cannot do this again!”

Her cry resonated off of the stone walls around them as she felt a sob rise in her throat, clawing its way out until she felt as if she could barely breathe.

“I cannot be helpless again,” Sansa said, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I-I lived it once. I tried to be the perfect lady and it did  _ nothing _ . They used me as their pawn and they humiliated me before everyone and they  _ beat  _ me. I cannot do it again, please. Just-just teach me. I can learn if you-if you just…”

Jon lurched forward, catching her as her knees grew weak. Sansa let him gather her close, her hands clutching at him desperately as she pressed her face into his shoulder. She could feel his rage in the tension of his body, in the way he held her close to him in an unrelenting embrace.

“Please,” she sobbed, choking out the word. “I-I can’t…  _ please. _ ”

Jon cupped the back of her head, turning his face into her hair and inhaling deeply before he spoke.

“I will cut down any threat to you,” he said in a low, quiet voice. “You have my word.”

Sansa drew away, looking up at him with wide eyes and wet cheeks.

“What if you aren’t there?”

There mere thought of it caused his eyes to flare with anger once more.

“Then I will teach you,” he finally said, pressing his forehead to hers. “Starting tomorrow.”

Sansa clung to his words as she let herself relax in his arms, somehow trusting that he meant it.

*****

“Don’t.”

The single word drew him up short, stopping him before he could leave the bedchamber with the same fur in his hands. Sansa sat upon the bed in her shift, her knees drawn to her chest as her heart raced at the risk she was about to take.

“Stay,” she said, needing no more than the single word to tell him what she wanted.

“Are you sure?” Jon asked, his face wary.

Sansa nodded, relief unfurling within her as he slowly made his way back to the bed. She couldn’t explain to him why she wanted him there. She didn’t really understand it herself. Only that the need she felt was nearly overwhelming. Sansa wanted him close to her. She had to take the leap, to have faith that he would not harm her. After all, if he wished to do so, he’d have done it long before now. As he settled on the bed next to her, she felt oddly self-conscious. Neither of them moved to lie down, staring off in different directions as they tried to figure out what to do.

“Your teachers,” Jon said, notes of hesitation and heat in his voice. “Do any of them live? The ones who did the… the things that you spoke of?”

She considered his question for a moment, shaking her head as she ran through the list of those who harmed her and used her. Joffrey. Cersei. The Kingsguard. Petyr. Marillion.

“They’re ghosts now.”

A moment passed in silence before he reached out, taking her hand in his and weaving their fingers gently. Sansa felt nearly overwhelmed at the simplest gesture, turning her head to watch as he lifted her hand, brushing a kiss over her knuckles. His eyes met hers, uncertainty in their depths as if he feared that she might pull away. Sansa felt the sudden urge to do quite the opposite, finding herself moving closer as she turned towards him. Her other hand lifted, her fingers brushing gently over his cheek before tangling in his hair.

Only then did she lean forward, her eyes slipping closed just as she brushed a soft kiss over his lips. It was the first time she’d ever laid a willing kiss upon a man’s lips. Her heart stuttered in her chest as she felt almost giddy at the realization. Jon remained almost perfectly still, only moving when she began to lean away, chasing her lips for another chaste kiss. It thrilled her, knowing that he wanted it to happen as much as she did. Sansa pressed her lips more firmly to his, seeking more of this feeling. This simple desire.

Jon’s arm wrapped around her waist, his lips moving against hers as he gave her kiss after kiss, each of them as perfect as the one before it. Sansa let out a gasp when he hauled her in close, arranging her over his lap until she was sideways upon his thighs, her hand twisted more firmly into his hair as he cupped her cheek gently. It felt as if an eternity passed between them as they kissed, heat surrounding them. When his lips parted, Sansa inhaled deeply at the feeling of his tongue darting out, teasing at the seam of her lips.

Tentatively, she let her own lips part and whimpered as he nipped at her lower lip, feeling as if she needed more even if she didn’t know exactly what that entailed. Their kisses were no longer chaste, to be sure, and she felt the need to explore further. To see what else awaited her. To find out if it all felt as good as it did now. When his tongue swept into her mouth in a hot, desperate kiss, Sansa felt as if she might fall to pieces then and there. It was all too much and not enough. She curled her tongue curiously against his, gripping his hair tighter between her fingers and drawing a groan from deep in his chest.

His hand fell to her hip, hot even through the fabric of her shift as he kissed her eagerly. It felt consuming and intense in so many ways and every part of her wished fervently that this could have been her first kiss. That the others could fade from her mind so that she only ever remembered this. Time meant little to her, only the feeling of his lips and tongue. Even as he nipped at her bottom lip with her teeth, sending a roll of heat through her body, Sansa felt that she was growing more and more addicted to this.

Then they heard the loud, furious screech from above.

They wrenched away from one another with twin gasps of surprise, their heads snapping towards the window as if they could see through the darkness. They were both tense within mere seconds, entirely aware of what had to have made such a noise. Yet Sansa didn’t expect to see the panic that flitted over Jon’s face. He had been around the dragons for years. Was he truly afraid of them? Or did the presence of one so near to the castle mean something that she did not know?

“Drogon,” Jon breathed.

Sansa knew that to be the biggest of them, the black dread that would one day rival Balerion for size and power. It was the dragon that Daenerys rode.

“What is it?” Sansa asked, staring at his face with wide, openly fearful eyes.

“Something’s happened,” Jon said, his eyes flitting to hers and holding her gaze for a moment before he began shifting her from his lap. “You must stay here.”

Sansa found it hard to let him go yet she pried her fingers away from him all the same, watching as he hastily yanked a jerkin on over his tunic and shoved his feet into boots.

“Jon,” she said, her voice tinged with fear.

“Stay here,” he repeated, his eyes fixing upon her. “Promise me.”

Sansa wanted to refuse until he told her exactly what was going on but she knew there was little time from the haste in his eyes.

“I promise,” she said quietly.

Jon hesitated for a moment at the sound of her vow, his eyes growing tender for a moment before he crossed back over to where she sat on the bed, her lips swollen and her hair mussed beyond belief. He bent over, crushing his lips to hers in another consuming kiss. Sansa responded in kind, her fears only multiplying at the desperation in his embrace. Then he was gone, his footsteps fading away as she sat there, trembling and alone. Closing her eyes, Sansa began praying, truly praying, for the first time in a very long time.

“Bring him back to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist throwing another cliffhanger your way. They're addictive, I swear.
> 
> As always, I would love to hear what you think!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) I know that I missed yesterday's post. Something came up and I couldn't finish the chapter out. That just means that either today or tomorrow, you are getting two chapters. The fic will definitely be finished by tomorrow.
> 
> (2) I know that this is a short chapter but it's a bridge to the next, where we are going to have some good stuff going on. Great stuff. Intense stuff.
> 
> (3) There is most definitely going to be a sequel to this fic. I have it all planned out in my head already. So this is not the end, I promise.
> 
> (4) You are all amazing.

Sansa couldn’t help but pace around the bedchamber, her hands twisting in her dressing gown nervously. She heard nothing, not from within the castle or outside of it. Whatever caused the dragon to screech overhead either must have drawn him away from the Red Keep or whatever agitated him had resolved itself. But if that was the case, why had time dragged on with no sign of Jon returning? She couldn’t forget her promise to him, no matter how much she wanted to leave the chambers to find out what happened. Only when she heard a knock upon the outer door did Sansa dare approach it, hesitantly opening it a few inches to peer through, mindless of her state of undress.

“Ser Jorah,” she said, her eyes growing wide.

“Your Highness,” he said, bowing to her.

There was a distance to his voice and a weight to his gaze that spoke of his concern. Sansa knew his presence was no coincidence.

“Is everything alright?” she asked, her heart fluttering anxiously. “I’ve been waiting for my husband to return.”

“I’ve come to bring you to him, Princess,” Ser Jorah said.

Sansa hesitated, trying to decide what she should do. If he’d been sent by Daenerys, she would have a hard time refusing him. Yet Jon seemed far too concerned when he made her promise for her to dismiss it so lightly.

“He sent me to escort you.”

Still feeling torn over whether she should believe him, Sansa nodded her head nonetheless.

“Give me a few minutes to dress myself,” Sansa said, withdrawing from the door.

“Shall I call upon a maid?” the knight offered her.

She shook her head, still well used to caring for herself. There was no telling where Teya might be.

“I can manage.”

Sansa took a deep breath once the door was shut, hesitating for a moment before hurrying into the bedchamber. Her dress from the day was still laid over a chair. Once she shed the dressing gown, Sansa quickly donned the dress, feeling thankful that it laced in the front. She tied it off before hastily donning her slippers. Only then did she step out to join Ser Jorah.

“Has something happened?” she asked, allowing him to guide her through the corridors. “I heard the dragon and it seemed to alarm the prince…”

“You shouldn’t let it worry you overmuch. Drogon tends to respond to his mother’s moods when she feels something strongly,” Jorah said, his voice nearly reassuring. “I think you provide a certain levity that the prince needs right now.”

She couldn’t help but blink with surprise, remaining silent as they moved through the holdfast until they neared Daenerys’ chamber. She could hear raised voices emanating from within once more. Doubt rose within her as she suspected that the man at her side may not have been entirely truthful. If there was nothing to worry about, why would there be shouting? What could have upset the queen so much that Sansa could hear her raging from twenty paces away. Though she hesitated to draw closer, little prepared to find herself in the midst of an argument, she let Ser Jorah lead the way nonetheless.

Only when she stepped into the room at his urging nod did the commotion cease. Jon and Daenerys stood near to one another, matching looks of rage upon their faces. Tyrion hovered nearby with a wathful expression. Sansa hadn’t understood a word they said as they argued in Valyrian once more but she couldn’t imagine what might bring such fury down upon them. Yet Jon was not focused upon his aunt for the moment, but rather upon Sansa as he regarded her with wide eyes. His eyes flitted to Ser Jorah accusingly before he shot Daenerys the same look. Only then did he look back at Sansa.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, nearly breathless from shouting as he took a half step towards her.

“I was told-”

Sansa cut off, her head snapping towards Jorah who gave her an apologetic look in return.

“You lied to me,” she said, unable to grasp that she’d believed him so easily.

Her frustration was turned inward more than aimed at him. Sansa knew better than to trust anyone at their word.

“I thought you might want the chance to speak to her directly,” he said, his eyes flitting past her to Daenerys, who he was clearly speaking to.

“Yes,” the queen said, a tinge of anger still in her voice. “Perhaps that will be wise.”

Jon moved quickly, crossing the room to stand mere inches from Sansa. He seemed tempted to stand before her and block Daenerys from seeing her but he settled with half-hiding her behind his form, glaring daggers at his aunt.

“This is wrong, Dany,” he said, remarkably casual in a way that Sansa hadn’t heard until now. “You know that. You must.”

“It’s necessary,” Daenerys said in return, raising her eyebrow in challenge.

Sansa lifted a hand, brushing Jon’s shoulder in a light touch. His head turned towards her, meeting her eyes with a stormy expression. She tilted her head to the side ever-so-slightly, hoping he might understand her wordless request for an explanation.

“It is a matter of the succession,” Daenerys spoke up, drawing all attention to her as she looked between Sansa and Jon suspiciously. “I’ve been discussing it with Lord Tyrion and our argument grew quite heated.”

“Your Grace,” the man in question spoke up, his eyes flitting to Sansa warily.

Daenerys held up her hand, silencing him without saying a word.

“I cannot have children, Lady Sansa,” she said, lifting her chin with a carefully guarded look upon her face. “It is a sad yet vital truth that apparently has great bearing upon my reign. My initial decision was to name my nephew as my heir but as he will be the King in the North, I know that such an appointment is unwise in the long term.”

Sansa stared at her with wide eyes, somehow sensing where this would end. Jon was not a good heir for the title he would hold but Daenerys could easily look elsewhere, perhaps to those who had not yet been born.

“I will decree that the firstborn issue of your union will be heir to each of the seven kingdoms.”

Jon grew stiff at Sansa’s side as she felt the words hit her like a fist to the gut. Tyrion merely breathed out a soft sigh and Ser Jorah said nothing at all. Daenerys stares at Sansa directly, awaiting her response.

“The northern lords will not like it, my queen,” Tyrion said, clearly still trying to dissuade her from the idea. “They will know the implications.”

The implications. Sansa could figure that out all too well. It was almost clever, a way for Daenerys to grant the North independence without making it a lasting state. Any child she bore with Targaryen blood would be destined to sit upon two thrones, tying the seven kingdoms together once more.

“They will come to accept it,” Daenerys said confiently.

“I have not lain with her,” Jon said, his voice right with restrained anger.

Sansa blinked once yet kept her gaze otherwise blank as the queen looked upon her nephew with a nearly amused expression.

“I saw the bloodied sheets myself,” she said, drawing a sharp intake of breath from Sansa.

It seemed that Jon knew exactly what he was doing when he cut his hand open. She hadn’t thought that anyone would actually see the stain upon the sheets but apparently Daenerys had been looking.

“What if we do not have children?” Sansa asked carefully.

Daenerys eyes lit upon her as she spoke for the first time in minutes.

“Then you will condemn two families to ruin, ending both of our lines,” Daenerys said coolly.

Sansa stared at her, wondering how someone could be this callous even after all she’d seen. Had she been planning this since the start? Luring then into marriage and plotting to steal their child for her own devices? Had Jon known about it? Did he seek to delay his aunt and convince her otherwise as he refused to bed Sansa? Would he have let her go on in ignorance if Ser Jorah hadn’t brought her here?

“How can you justify this?” Jon demanded, his rage taking over once more. “You, who know what it is like to be used as a pawn in the games of others? How could you condemn anyone else to such a fate?”

“Your wife knows when it is time to do her duty,” Daenerys answered without a beat of hesitation. “Just as she did when she married you. Perhaps she can help me to teach you such values,  _ Zokla _ . I think you have forgotten who you owe your loyalty to.”

“I know who has earned my loyalty,” Jon said, his voice suddenly and rather remarkably level. “That belief will not waver.”

“Good,” Daenerys said decidedly. “I will have Ser Jorah, as my master of laws, write up the decree.”

At her words, the truth of it crushed Sansa beneath her weight. A child of hers condemned to the south, where no Stark could ever thrive. A child of hers chained to the throne, destined to continue a line that wrought fire and blood upon Westeros for hundreds of years. Her stomach lurched at the very thought, her head spinning and her heart racing. She felt her knees growing weak and prayed that she would not collapse here. Not where Daenerys would see.

“Pardon me,” Sansa managed to say, her voice distant from her own ears as she stepped away.

She didn’t wait for a dismissal, turning for the door. Her limbs felt weighed down, as if she treaded water with every step. No one called her back. Daenerys did nothing to stop her. Sansa kept a hand braces upon the wall as she walked along the corridor, still trying to wrap her mind around the truth of what just happened. The full realization of it crushed her beneath its weight as a gasp passed through her lips.

Her legs finally gave out beneath her, sending her crumpling to the ground as she suppressed a scream of fury and devastation. Before she knew it, there were arms wrapped about her from behind and a whisper at her ear. Sansa did nothing to break his hold upon her, staring off into nothingness as silent tears rolled down her cheeks. Jon’s words barely reached her, finally slipping through the haze of her mind.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” he murmured, holding her close with desperation in his voice. “If I knew… if I thought she’d plan this, I would have… I…”

Sansa leaned into him after a moment, a whimper passing through her lips. He held her tighter, his words failing him. She knew how it felt, for she had nothing to say either.

*****

“I thought I might find you here.”

Sansa tensed at the voice she heard at her back, wishing she’d found a better place to sequester herself. There were few within King’s Landing who knew her habits. Tyrion Lannister just happened to be one of them, remembering how she would isolate herself within the godswood when she wanted to be alone. It seemed only fair, considering she’d woken up alone in Jon’s bed. She knew that he was used to solitude yet that didn’t make it any less bothersome that he chose to disappear. So Sansa chose to disappear herself, hoping that it would be far longer before anyone found her. It made her feel like a too young girl once more, hiding from the world and hoping she wouldn’t be found.

“What happened to Shae?”

The words slipped out before she could call them back, her curiosity nearly overwhelming. Her former handmaiden had flitted through her thoughts more than once since she came back to King’s Landing, leaving her to wonder where the Essosi woman wound up after Joffrey’s wedding. Sansa heard no answer and finally turned her head to look upon Tyrion, who seemed to be doing his best to keep from meeting her gaze.

“She died,” he finally said, sounding incredibly reluctant to tell her.

Though a deep part of Sansa suspected as much, for it was all anyone ever seemed to do, she fell devastated by the news all the same. Shae had been a face of kindness in the midst of all the horrors she endured. The only true friend that Sansa could name, one who didn’t want to use her for the blood in her veins, the color of her hair, or what power she could offer. As much as she wanted to ask how it happened, there were too many horrific images engraved in her mind for her to want yet another. Sansa swallowed hard to keep her emotions at bay as she slowly rose to her feet.

“Did you know?” she asked, a layer of steel in her voice. “Did you know what she planned to do before I married the prince?”

Tyrion looked up at her, a wary expression in his eyes.

“I knew that she is unable to have children.”

“And it did not occur to you that she might use another to produce heirs for the throne? That she might seek to take  _ my  _ children for her own purposes?”

He sighed, holding his hands out in a placating manner.

“A singular child,” he said, as if it might make the idea of it easier to swallow. “A ruler that can unite the houses once more and establish a dynasty to last centuries.”

“Rendering the queen’s offer of northern independence useless if it is undone in a matter of years,” Sansa said, drawing her shoulders and lifting her chin. “Do you think my people will take well to that?”

“If someone of Stark blood sits upon the Iron Throne-“

“With a Targaryen name,” she cut him off.

Tyrion looked tired, rubbing at his brow.

“We must all make concessions for the sake of peace,” he said.

Sansa fought the urge to let out a scoff, shaking her head as she looked away from him.

“And what is Daenerys Targaryen yielding? What concessions has she made?”

No answer came, not that she expected one. Sansa managed a small, bitter smile that held no true amusement, glancing to him once more.

“Your nephew refused to give way to any middle-ground as well,” Sansa said, holding his gaze fearlessly. “Was he a good king, my lord?”

She did not wait for a reply, gathering her skirts as she started forward, making her way down the path and leaving him behind to consider her words.

*****

Sansa did not expect to be alone once more as she stepped into her chambers but the last thing she expected to see was Jon in a chair before the hearth, a fire crackling within. He started at the flames with an intensity in his eyes, never wavering from them even as she shut the door and removed her cloak from her shoulders.

“You disappeared,” he said after a long stretch of silence, his voice low and clearly displeased.

“I thought to take a leaf from my husband’s book,” Sansa said, brushing the dust from her skirts.

She felt his eyes upon her back as she disappeared into her bedchamber, folding her cloak over her vanity chair and crossing to the bowl of water to splash her face and wash her hands. Only when she turned did she see him hovering in the doorway between the chambers, silent as the night in his movements. She nearly gasped, managing to restrain herself as her heart leapt in her chest.

“Do you blame me for this?” Jon asked, sounding more curious than angry.

Sansa stared at him for a long moment, wondering what answer he wanted from her.

“Should I?” she asked.

His eyes flashed as he took a step further into the room.

“You do,” he decided.

“You have been hiding something from me,” Sansa said, wondering if he truly thought she hadn’t seen it. “Everyone has since the day I arrived here. How am I to think it is anything but a trick? A way to bind me to this family so that I have little choice but to do as you say. As your aunt says.”

“If I had known that this was her plan, I would have outright refused to wed you. I would have been no part of this,” Jon said insistently, traces of anger in his voice.

“And you would have helped me to escape?” Sansa asked, remember his words all those days ago. “Tell me, how long would it have taken Daenerys to ride that dragon of hers north to burn Winterfell? One? Perhaps two? Would she have burned the whole of the north?”

Jon’s eyes grew wide, a look of wild panic flitting through them. It was a suspicion on Sansa’s part. A mere theory that Daenerys may not be all that she seemed. Now she felt that it was all but confirmed as truth.

“What have you been told?” he asked, reaching out to her as he moved closer, concern quite clear in his eyes.

“No one had to tell me anything. I have seen it before,” she said, stepping out of his reach as she wondered why they all thought that she hadn’t learned a thing. “The same eyes in different faces. The same darkened hearts in different people.”

With a shake of her head, she turned away from him and pressed a hand over her mouth, trying to keep every thought she had from spilling forth. Her chest felt near to bursting with anger.

“How could you do it?” she whispered, shaking her head. “How could you put such a person on the throne? How could you take part in her war?”

A moment passed in silence. Then another and another as it stretched on until she had to look to see if he’d left. He stood there, rooted to place with a stricken expression.

“Because we had no choice,” Jon finally said.

Sansa stared at him, dread filling her at his words.

“Who is she?”

As much as she feared to know the truth of Daenerys Targaryen, Sansa had to hear it. She wouldn’t be kept in the dark for a moment longer. Jon looked reluctant to speak at all, though he nodded his head slowly. Sansa let him take her hand and guide her to the bed, sitting down with him as he rubbed at his jaw with his free hand.

“I’ll tell you,” Jon said, hesitantly meeting her gaze. “I’ll tell you everything.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I'd love to hear you think!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay. My only excuse is writer's block. I got caught up in my head and couldn't figure out how to get where I wanted. But it eventually worked itself out. I plan on getting out the last two chapters of this fic out today as well as the first chapter of the next birthday month fic. So fingers crossed for that.
> 
> I love you all. Thank you so much for your support.

Sansa couldn’t bring herself to speak, letting everything that Jon told her sink in. It was nothing like she imagined, hearing Daenerys’ story. Those who proclaimed her name around the realm, likely with Lannister gold lining their pockets, told the story of a woman who rose from hardship to triumph. They made no mention of those she stepped on along the way. No mention of those who burned. Sansa felt like a fool. For letting herself become entangled in the queen’s trap. For gathering the support of the Vale in her favor.

Even if she didn’t intend it, Sansa helped put her on the throne.

She rose to her feet slowly, her legs feeling weak as she moved towards the window. Hiding her shaking hands in the folds of her gown, Sansa stared out at nothing at all. All she could do was let Jon’s words flood her mind, image after image, story after story. Death and destruction followed Daenerys Targaryen like a shadow. Fire and blood, true to her family name, unlike Jon. Sansa could see how little of a choice he had, in truth. Not only was she his family, but his queen. The mother of dragons who would gladly burn those who stood in her way, possibly even her bastard nephew.

“I should never have agreed to it,” Jon said quietly. “I should have refused to tie you to us in such a way.”

Sansa shook her head, letting her eyes fall closed. She wished that she could take back all of her blameful words. That she could convince him that none of it was his own fault. Daenerys’ actions were not his own and Sansa refused to lay the blame at his feet for another moment longer.

“It can still be fixed. I can help you escape. I know that there are those who would shelter you.”

His words were treasonous yet that was not the reason she turned to face him, her eyes round with surprise and panic.

“No,” Sansa said, shaking her head once more.

Jon rose to his feet, his face betraying his inner turmoil.

“I will not keep you trapped here,” he said with determination. “There are many things that I could not prevent but I won’t allow her to poison your life. Nor will she use me to do such a thing.”

Sansa crossed to him, lifting her hands to cradle his face.

“You are not a poison,” she said, staring into his eyes.

Jon looked far from convinced by her words. For a moment, she thought that he may move away from her touch. Yet he remained where he was in spite of his reluctance.

”I knew who she was,” he said simply, grief passing through his eyes. “And I fought for her.”

Before she could muster a single word of disagreement, he slowly pulled out of her arms and turned away. Sansa could sense that he wanted to do something now. To fix what he could. She could see that she’d misjudged him from the start and every ounce of her distrust hurt him as much as it gave him something to prove. He wasn’t his aunt. And she feared what he would do to prove it.

“She won’t allow our marriage to be dissolved,” Sansa said, hoping that her words would get through to him. “And I will not bring her anger down upon the North by fleeing.”

“So what is there to do?” Jon said, a weary sound to his voice.

Sansa closed the distance between them slowly, reaching out to take a gentle hold of his arm. He tensed beneath her touch for just a moment, far too used to violence in his life. Sansa didn’t begrudge him for it, pressing her forehead to his shoulder as she breathed in deeply. She would not force him to face her but she wouldn’t let him isolate himself either. They’d both done far too much of that.

“We trust each other,” Sansa said, taking a leap of faith with her words. “We must. There are too many enemies for us to fight amongst ourselves.”

“Enemies?”

Sansa wondered if he took offense to her words. If his regard for Daenerys as his kin and queen would never allow him to work against her.

“My father would often say something, words he used to bind us all together,” Sansa said, keeping herself at his back as she remembered Ned Stark’s often quiet speech. “When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”

Jon shivered beneath her touch, as if the words reached deep within him.

“We are the last of the Starks, Jon. We must survive.”

*****

Sansa felt Teya’s apprehension, wondering if word had traveled through the keep of the argument. It would have been impossible for anyone to miss Drogon’s appearance. Sansa had to consider what other rumors were flying about. She had little doubt that Varys was whispering them into his queen’s ear.

“How did you come to be in the queen’s service, Teya?” Sansa asked, watching through the mirror atop the vanity as Teya ran a brush through her hair.

“I was a bed slave in Meereen,” Teya said, her face betraying a haunted past. “My master tried to keep me but I ran to the Great Pyramid. The queen gave me a place in her household and…”

Sansa didn’t have to wonder what happened to Teya’s master. She knew well what Daenerys did to the masters in Meereen from Jon’s stories.

“Did you know the Westerosi language before then?” she asked, moving away from the topic as she sought to put the other woman at ease.

Teya shook her head, a small smile pulling at her lips.

“Missandei taught me,” she said, a breathy sound to her voice. “She told us all that we were going to a new place and offered to teach anyone who might want to learn.”

“How very kind of her,” Sansa said.

Yet she could not help but wonder what Daenerys might have done if Teya decided she didn’t want to come to Westeros. Would she have let her remain? Or demanded that she come along? Would Teya have been given a choice at all?

“The usual way, Your Highness?” Teya asked, setting the brush aside.

Sansa hesitated, glancing over her shoulder at the dress she had laid out on the bed. It took mere moments for her to decide, for she had a little game to play. It was all too easy to call upon the lessons she’d learned, taught by experience as much as her teachers.  _ Give them what they want, sweetling, _ Petyr’s voice crooned in her ear.  _ “You will be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” _

“Do whatever you wish,” Sansa said, seeing the smile break out on Teya’s face at the thought. “I’d like to see if my hair suits a more eastern style.”

Her handmaiden’s fingers moved quick, all too used to twisting, braiding, and pinning hair into complicated styles. It was far more simple than any of Daenerys’ many braids yet far different from anything that Sansa might have done. Just enough for anyone to see the difference. She praised Teya, who lit up at her words. As she dressed, she couldn’t help but wonder how many truly good people served Daenerys. People like Jon and Teya. What would have happened to those good people if she lost the war? Sansa didn’t have to wonder, for she knew the cruelty of the Lannisters and imagined Cersei would serve no mercy to any of Daenerys’ foreign army and servants.

“You look lovely,” Teya said, her eyes warm as she took Sansa in from head to toe.

Sansa managed a faint smile, running her hands over the unfamiliar material of the gown she wore. It was her own creation, with layers of gauzy material and a more daring neckline than she’d usually allow herself. A northern woman would never wear such a thing but that was not who she could be right now. Sansa Stark wouldn’t survive here so Sansa Targaryen must. She kept Margaery in the back of her mind with every stitch she made, wondering how the other woman would navigate her way through such a situation.

The dress would have suited someone like the Rose of Highgarden quite well, though Margaery would have left her arms bare rather than add a close cut sleeve made of Myrish lace. Sansa knew at heart that it did not suit her but she knew that her beauty and lies could convince anyone differently. She knew exactly where her feet would carry her as she left her chambers, keeping her head held high as she crossed the grounds of the keep and felt eyes on her from every direction. The Great Hall loomed over her like a threatening beast but Sansa refused to falter, ascending the steps with the light skirts held in her hands to keep from ripping them.

Once she stepped into the cacophonous room, it seemed that all conversation ceased though she could still hear whispers as she passed by groups of courtiers waiting on their queen to arrive and hear petitions. Sansa remembered how Cersei would breeze through a room and acted as though she was above all others, a contrast to Margaery who warmly greeted anyone within sight and courted the love of nobles and smallfolk alike. The Tyrells gathered influence in such a way, gaining each scrap of love that the Lannisters lost. Sansa knew which way she would lean, pausing near to a gathering of lords from the Riverlands.

“Your Highness.”

They were all quick to bow to her, muttering out her title as Sansa favored them with a small smile.

“My lords,” she said, gesturing for them to rise. “I’ve heard little news from Riverrun since I left the Vale. How does my uncle fare?”

“He is quite well, Princess,” Lord Harlton said, sounding quite proud to answer.

“He is settled and content after his ordeal?” Sansa asked, tilting her head to the side with concern in her voice.

“Lord Edmure knows that he has the support of the Riverlands,” Lord Tristan Ryger assured her.

Sansa knew him to be a childhood friend of her uncle and trusted him at his word.

“I thank you all for lending him your faith,” she said, looking each of the men in the eye. “You will always have my favor and the favor of the North.”

They looked stunned yet pleased by her words, all giving her a bow once more. She lowered her head in acknowledgment before moving along, greeting a few lords and ladies from the Stormlands, the Reach, and even the Westerlands as she grew ever closer to the throne. Only when she took a step towards the gallery, remembering how she always stood there before, did the fanfare announce Daenerys’ approach. Everyone sank into bows and curtsies, including Sansa herself, yet she knew she would not go unnoticed for long.

Everyone rose as Daenerys sat upon the throne, her eyes sweeping over the crowd of nobles with a pleased look in her violet depths. True to Sansa’s prediction, the queen’s gaze fixed upon her and surprise flitted through her eyes before she lifted her hand, beckoning her over without a single word. Sansa crossed to the foot of the platform that held the throne, sinking into a low curtsy with her head bowed, her eyes fixed upon the ground as she offered a show of obeisance for all to see, though her intended audience sat well above the rest.

“Your Grace,” she said in a soft voice.

“Rise,” Daenerys instructed, her voice carrying far more than Sansa’s.

She looked pleased as Sansa lifted her head to meet her gaze, a smile pulling at her lips.

“My niece will sit here,” Daenerys said, gesturing at a spot to the left of her throne.

Sansa blinked, ensuring that she looked appropriately taken aback as a servant rushed to bring a chair for her.

“You honor me, Your Grace,” she said, bowing her head.

“You are my kin,” Daenerys said, inviting Sansa to ascend the steps. “And a princess at that. It is no honor to give you that which you deserve.”

Though her skin crawled at the idea of sitting in such close proximity to the woman, she gracefully took her seat and offered Daenerys as pretty a smile as she could muster.

“Thank you.”

Daenerys nodded in return, looking far beyond appeased.

“You look lovely, if I may say so. Another creation of yours?” she asked, reaching out to brush her fingers over the skirt of Sansa’s gown.

“Yes,” she said with a nod. “I thought to represent your court in my gown, bringing together the traditions of this land and the others you have lived in. It is a work in progress but I think I will make more to fit the design.”

“And no doubt start a trend of it,” Daenerys said, her eyes shining as she tilted her head towards the courtiers that surrounded them.

Sansa knew that the ladies of the court would often mimic the female members of the royal family in their dress. It wasn’t her intention to take away from Daenerys, who wielded plenty of influence through her style, yet Sansa didn’t feel entirely guilty for it either.

“I simply wish to take advantage of the warmth while I can,” Sansa said, tilting her head towards Daenerys as if they were confidants. “There will be few opportunities to wear something so fine in the North.”

“A true shame,” Daenerys said, her milk-white fingers brushing an errant lock of hair over Sansa’s ear. “I would treasure such a jewel here.”

Sansa felt color rising to her cheeks and ducked her head with a forced smile, though it was anger that brought the warmth to her face. This woman had no right to claim anything of Sansa’s. Not her face. Not her claim. Not her children. Yet she knew that the game must be played. Her pretty smiles, lovely dresses, and purposeful styles of hair would put Daenerys at ease, rather than on the attack. She felt relief when Daenerys nodded at Missandei to announce her to the court, as if every man and woman did not know who she was.

As petitions were laid out before her, from nobles and smallfolk alike, Sansa listened to each one as well as how Daenerys handled them. Her decisions were either postponed or quite clumsy. It became clear that Daenerys had little idea of how to handle such common issues and Sansa wondered why she hadn’t gathered her council around her to hear petitions. Was her pride so great that she could not bear to look to another? To give the impression that she listened to any mind but her own? Was this the true downfall of the Targaryens in the past? Not all madness but power as well?

Sansa felt odd, sitting above the rest. She used to be a face in the crowd, praying that she shouldn’t be noticed. Now she was a member of the royal family. Daenerys called her a princess yet she knew the queen saw her as a pawn. She didn’t know that a combatant sat in her midst. As she rose, dismissing the court with a practiced speech, Sansa stood with her and watched as everyone bowed. Daenerys looked satisfied yet to Sansa, it felt disingenuous. Similar to how people bowed to Joffrey and Cersei. Knowing that they had little choice yet aware of how many monarchs they’d seen in the last few years.

“Could I have a moment, my queen?” Sansa asked, turning her head to look at Daenerys alone.

Their gazes met for a brief moment before the queen nodded her head, a curious glint in her eyes.

“Walk with me,” Daenerys said, making her way down the steps.

Bowing her head, Sansa followed her from the Great Hall. The gardens were quieter than Sansa remembered before, without the Tyrells to claim spots amidst the flowers and terraces.

“You seem restored,” Daenerys said, gesturing for Sansa to walk at her side. “I know that we could have been kinder in telling you our intent. I have the habit of losing my tact when I’m frustrated.”

“I was only surprised,” Sansa assured her, giving Daenerys a smile.

Yet she did not receive one in return, only a furrowed brow.

“Jaehaerys has refused to see me since that night,” Daenerys said, looking away from her. “I know that he is avoiding my presence.”

Sansa knew what this was, a piece of bait dangled before her. Perhaps even a test, to see where her loyalties lay. Mustering every layer of courtesy and shielding herself with a mask of innocence, Sansa opened her mouth to begin her side of the game. Daenerys had been playing it ever since she arrived in King’s Landing, moving Sansa this way and that and giving her little room to move on her own. Sansa had every intention of keeping up the facade of a pawn, if only to further the game she knew far better than this woman.

“I lived through the War of the Five Kings,” Sansa said, her voice purposefully distant as she stared off at the flowers. “The realm was impossibly divided over who was the rightful heir to the throne. My brother fought to avenge my father and free the North from Lannister influence. The Greyjoys sought revenge for their failed rebellion. Westeros suffered and bled and burned all for the sake of a chair. I don’t wish to see such a war happen again. I know the importance of a stable line to succeed the throne after we are gone. The prince hasn’t seen such instability. It may be hard for him to understand.”

Sansa felt horribly guilty for speaking of Jon in such a way. He deserved far better yet she could rationalize it, knowing that it was necessary to protect not only the two of them, but the whole of Westeros. She felt Daenerys’ eyes upon her and turned to meet them after a moment, letting her words hang in the air between them.

“You will agree to our plan?” Daenerys asked, looking almost surprised.

A smile formed on her face as she bowed her head.

“We must all do our part for peace,” Sansa said, keeping her words purposefully vague. “I will do anything for the people of Westeros.”

A look of relief and delight broke out over Daenerys’ face that made Sansa feel sick to the stomach. How this woman could feel so happy at the thought of someone giving away their own child for her own purposes was beyond imagining. Sansa would die before passing a babe into her arms yet she knew that there would be no option of going North if she did not agree to the proposition for now. Buy herself time and make her plans. That’s how it had to be done.

“I knew I made the right decision,” Daenerys said, reaching out to take her hand. “We do our duty, Sansa. That’s how we carry the seven kingdoms into a golden age.”

Sansa nodded her head in agreement, satisfaction unfurling in her chest. Now all that she had to do was escape the notice of Tyrion, Varys, and Jorah, who could all warn Daenerys if they sensed that something was amiss, and figure out how she was going to find a way out of this without dooming the North to dragonflame. As they continued walking, she sent a rare, silent prayer to whoever might be listening.

_ Gods, let this work. _

*****

Sansa barely managed to close the door of her chambers behind her before she was pressed against the wall by a strong body, a hand closing over her mouth to muffle the scream that rose in her throat. A vaguely familiar face swam in her vision as panic clawed at her chest.

“I mean you no harm, Princess,” Tristan Ryger said, his eyes wide and fixed upon hers. “If you will agree not to shout, I will release you.”

She stared at him with disbelief but knew that she could not break herself from his hold any other way. Slowly nodding her head, she relaxed and prayed that his constricting hands would release her. As soon as he did, taking a step away with relief upon his face, she darted past him to her table, snatching up the dagger that Jon gave her. Unsheathing it, she brandished in his direction with rage rising within her.

“How dare you accost me in my chambers,” Sansa hissed, registering the shock in his eyes.

“I apologize, my lady,” Tristan said, bowing his head.

“ _ Your Highness _ ,” she said, seething in all her anger. “You will address me with the right title, my lord, unless you wish for me to call on the guards to have you arrested, as is my right.”

“Then it should be  _ Your Grace, _ should it not?” he asked, daring to take a step towards her. “You are the heir to the last King in the North. Your brother, the Young Wolf.”

Sansa hesitated, hoping that no one could hear him from the corridor, for his words would be considered treason.

“Why are you here?” she demanded, unwavering in her defensive stance as she lifted her chin.

Tristan reached into his cloak slowly and she flinched away, preparing to see a weapon of his own. Instead, he produced a folded square of parchment and held it out to her in offering.

“Your uncle has written to you,” he said, nodding at her to take it. “Rumor is spreading that your marriage to the Targaryen bastard is unconsummated and therefore null. Edmure will offer you safety in Riverrun until you can make your way to your own castle, to take up the crown that is your right. The Queen in the North.”

Sansa watched with wide eyes as he lowered himself to one knee. How could Uncle Edmure be so foolish? Did he choose his friends so carelessly? Men who would wander in the apartments of the royal family without hesitation? What if Daenerys or Jon had been with her? What if Teya came through the door instead? Sansa eyed the sword on his belt and decided that she didn’t particularly want to know the answer.

“Get up,” she said, lowering her arm without releasing the dagger. “Now.”

Tristan looked surprised, rising slowly as she neared him. Sansa wrenched the letter from his grip and resisted the urge to throw it into the fire.

“My husband is no bastard. He is a prince with the blood of the House Stark in his veins,” she said, her cheeks hot with anger. “My uncle should choose his words more carefully and use his mind more wisely. This is not Cersei Lannister, whose reach extended only so far. Daenerys Targaryen can burn whoever she chooses, whenever she chooses. As long as her dragons live, no army can defeat her. Do not ever presume to enter my chambers without permission again, my lord. I will not excuse you so easily a second time.”

She gestured towards the door with her chin, making it quite clear what she meant him to do.

“Read the letter, Your Grace,” Tristan said, bowing to her before turning for the door. “Lord Edmure is not alone in his dislike for a Targaryen ruler.”

Sansa could only watch him go, dread filling her as she stood fixed in place for minutes on end, feeling crushed beneath the weight of an entire realm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> There wasn't much Jon x Sansa in this one but I promise the last chapter will make up for that in full.
> 
> If you want to see what I was imagining, [this](https://assets3.thrillist.com/v1/image/1710302/size/tmg-article_default_mobile.jpg) is the Daenerys-like style I imagined for Sansa's hair and [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/43f586630cee69fa04ccdc79514601d6/tumblr_o8bs4djuaD1ugmwaco1_1280.jpg) is a basic look for the dress I had in mind, with the few alterations I put into the text. Also the neckline isn't near that low. Sansa is just very much a chameleon to me and I can see her "playing the game" by using that ability to manipulate those around her into overlooking her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last chapter! I am so so incredibly grateful for all of the support. I can't believe I got this fic written in a week. You are all incredible. Thank you so much.
> 
> I earn the M rating in this chapter. That's all I'm going to say.

Sansa woke to the lightest of touches upon her cheek, stroking softly as she stirred. Her mind felt too slow, working to figure out what happened when she didn’t even recall falling asleep. Last she remembered, she’d come to Jon’s chambers to wait, wanting to show him her uncle’s letter. She felt only slightly tired and rested her head against a pillow. She must have fallen asleep quickly, which explained why she was there and who must have been waking her. Blinking her eyes open, Sansa was met with Jon’s concerned gaze as he stroked over her cheek with his thumb.

“What’s happened?” he asked.

She allowed a frown to form upon her face, wondering how he could tell. As Sansa moved to sit up, his hands guided her though she could have done it on her own. She couldn’t help but look at him fully, her eyes flitting over his face. He treated her gently, far more than any man had done since her father and brothers. There was something different about it. An intimacy behind his actions that might have scared her if she didn’t feel so at ease in his presence. She wouldn’t dare to fall asleep in any other’s chambers for fear of what they might do. Yet he was different.

“Why do you ask that?” Sansa said, wondering if something occurred as she slept.

“You usually undress before you come into my bed,” he said bluntly, bringing a faint flush to her cheeks.

She glanced down at the dress she wore, the same that she’d donned for court, only slightly rumpled from her slumber. Jon followed her gaze, taking in every inch of it. Though the light was dim in the bedchamber, she could have sworn she saw his eyes darken at the sight of her.

“Why are you dressed like my aunt?” he asked, his eyes flitting up to her hair.

Sansa lifted her hand, finding that the braids Teya wove together were still in place.

“To put her at ease,” she said honestly, dropping her hand. “It’s what I did before, when I lived here under Joffrey’s reign. I dressed like Cersei for a time, then Margaery Tyrell. They tended to be more sympathetic towards me when I did those sort of things.”

Jon blinked with surprise, as if he couldn’t quite grasp it. A man didn’t need such methods to gain power over another. Sansa had few weapons to wield. Casting her eyes around, she saw the letter folded on the bed near to her knee. She reached out to pick it up, hesitant to hand it over.

“You must read this,” Sansa said, meeting his eyes with careful indecision. “But we must burn it when you’re done. No one else can see it.”

He looked torn between confusion and apprehension, staring at the letter as if it was a sharp blade ready to cut into him.

“Who wrote it?” he asked.

“My uncle, Edmure Tully,” Sansa answered, pushing it into his hands.

“Why show it to me?”

She swallowed hard, staring at the letter where he held it without opening it.

“Because I do not know what to do,” Sansa said, looking into his eyes.

Jon stared back for a long few moments, seemingly searching for something in her gaze. Whatever he saw must have given him an answer to a question that he did not ask. He looked down as he unfolded the parchment, his eyes quickly moving across the scrawled words to take them in. Though it was not long, Edmure’s words laid out the perfect plan for a rebellion. An undeniably treasonous proposition, yet one that Sansa could not destroy until her husband read it.

The Riverlands, the Vale, the North, and the Reach all united in their opposition of Daenerys Targaryen.

It took a leap of faith, hoping that she was right about Jon. That he would not carry it to Daenerys and give her every bit of evidence she needed to burn several of the great houses of Westeros. In the wake of what he told her, for all the violent deeds he witnessed her commit, would he try to stop it? Sansa waited with bated breath, hoping she hadn’t condemned the realm to burn. Her stomach twisted anxiously, her heart racing as she watched him read it once, then twice, then a third time. Only then did he rise from the bed, turning away from her.

Sansa sank her teeth into her lower lip, knowing that she could do little to stop him if he left for Daenerys’ chamber. Yet his path did not lead him the door, but rather the fire still crackling in the hearth. With wide eyes, Sansa watched him toss the letter into the flames. She didn’t quite know what to do as he stood there watching it burn, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. A part of her wanted to run to him, to embrace him tightly in quiet thanks for not proving her wrong.

“You should go.”

His words, spoken quietly, pulled her from her thoughts. Sansa couldn’t quite understand what he meant by it. Slowly climbing off of the bed, she rose to her feet and took a step towards him.

“What does that mean?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

Jon turned only halfway towards her, as if he couldn’t bear to face her fully, and cast a resigned look her way.

“He is offering you safety,” he said, his hand curling into a fist at his side even as he spoke. “You will be free.”

Sansa stared at him with disbelief, unable to grasp why he was trying to push her away yet again.

“How many times do I have to tell you that I won’t run away?” she demanded, stepping towards him.

“You would have been alone before,” Jon said, shaking his head. “You may have allies now. People who can help you hold the North in your own right.”

Sansa pressed her lips together, turning her face away as she breathed through the burning she felt in her eyes.

“I would still be alone,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “You would be here.”

“I might be able to keep her from attacking,” Jon said.

She looked at him once more, unable to believe how he couldn’t see it.

“Daenerys doesn’t want you in the North to bind it to her,” Sansa said, her agitation rising. “She could easily do that with one of her dragons. Burn Winterfell or White Harbor to the ground and everyone else will fall in line. She is sending you to the North to get rid of you. To keep you, Rhaegar Targaryen’s son, out of sight. Away from the capital and the Red Keep. You are a threat to her, don’t you understand that?”

Jon blinked at her with surprise, though it was more for her impassioned speech than her words.

“Of course I know that,” he said, his words low.

“Then tell me, what will keep her from killing you if you help me escape?” Sansa demanded.

He didn’t say a word, confirming her suspicions.

“No,” she said, closing the distance between them with determined steps. “You will not sacrifice yourself for my sake, Jon.”

“That is my choice,” he said, staring her down.

Sansa shoved at his chest in a burst of fury, horrified that he could even consider it. He barely took a step back, his face growing harder.

“I will not let you!”

He caught her wrists in his hands easily, though his grip was gentle enough that she could break it if she wished.

“And I will not see you die!”

His shout stilled her in place, her eyes wide. Sansa watched as he breathed in and out heavily, his chest rising and falling quickly.

“How long until Varys discovers this plot? Until my aunt finds out and puts you to death?” Jon demanded.

Sansa blinked, a sudden image coming to the forefront of her mind. Kneeling as her father once did, submitting herself to a tyrant. A dragon looming over her instead of a sword as Daenerys pronounced her sentence on charges of treason. A burning death to follow.

“We can appease her together,” Sansa said, her voice almost pleading. “No one will have to die.”

Jon shook his head.

“You don’t know her as I do,” he said, his voice quiet once more. “Someone will always die.”

Shaking her head, she freed herself from his hold only to clutch at his tunic desperately.

“I will not let it be you.”

Jon stared at her, disbelief in his eyes.

“Why?” he asked, sounding truly baffled.

Sansa inhaled deeply, stunned that he even asked such a question. Pushing up on her toes, she knotted her fingers in his hair and captured his lips in a kiss. It took a mere second for him to respond, his hands falling to her hips as he pulled her in close, kissing her back with a desperation that she matched all too easily. Sansa arched into him, pulling at his dark strands and whimpering against his lips when he gripped her hip tightly. All else was forgotten in their passionate embrace, as they claimed one another in the most ardent of ways.

She gripped him tightly, bringing him along with her as she stumbled towards the bed. Jon tried to find his footing, huffing against her mouth as he staggered. Sansa managed a breathless laugh, breaking away from him to yank at the ties of his tunic. His hands closed around her wrists once more, somehow even more gentle than before, as he gazed into her eyes searchingly. There was deep desire in his gaze but something else as well. Concern for her, if Sansa had the right of it.

“Are you certain?” Jon asked, his thumb tracing over the tender skin of her inner wrist. “You don’t have to…”

Sansa silenced him with a finger on his lips, nodding her head.

“Yes.”

She freed her wrists once more, pulling the tunic from his breeches to yank over his head. Jon’s fingers delved into her hair, likely destroying Teya’s handiwork. Not that Sansa minded, as his lips soon followed. They kissed hungrily even as she reached back to loosen her dress. Jon spun her about before she could tug on a single tie, pulling a gasp from his lips as he gathered her hair over one shoulder and trailed his lips over the column of her neck. Sansa felt as if she was burning from the inside out, a scorching need rising within her.

“You know what it means,” Jon breathed against her skin, causing her to shiver.

“I will have no other,” Sansa said, reaching back to guide his hands to her laces. “I need _you_ , Jon.”

He didn’t deny her a third time, his fingers making quick work of her laces.

“I’d tear this from you if you didn’t look so bloody beautiful in it,” he grumbled.

Heat gathered in her lower belly at his words and Sansa carefully pushed the dress down, pulling her arms from the sleeves and guiding it over her hips until it pooled on the ground at her feet. Only then did she turn, cupping Jon’s face as she drew him into a gentle kiss. His hands found her back, incredibly hot through the thin fabric of her shift, and she found herself pushing at him until he fell back onto the bed. Sansa felt his eyes upon her, roaming over what he could see. The firelight in the room rendered her shift transparent, allowing him to see her curves and the swell of her breasts.

“Have you done this before?” Sansa asked, breathing heavily as she hesitantly pulled at the ribbons on her shift.

Jon hesitated before nodding slowly. In another life, she might have been bothered by such a confession. In this one, she could only feel relief. Myranda Royce always told her that a more experienced man could be a wonder in the bedchamber, if he was thoughtful enough. Sansa pulled the shift over her head before she could hesitate, tossing it away and leaving her in smallclothes alone. Jon pushed up on his elbows, his eyes nearly black as night as he took in every inch of her.

“Show me,” Sansa said, her voice shaking.

He reached out, grasping her hands to guide her to his lap. Sansa gasped as he anchored her in close with an arm around her waist, her breasts brushing over his chest and making warm shivers run through her. Jon kissed her without pause, his tongue sweeping into her mouth as her hands explored his shoulders and back. She could feel various scars beneath her palms, decorating his otherwise smooth skin. As his own hand lifted to stroke over her spine, she stiffened as she felt him trace one of her own scars. Jon drew away, a questioning look in his eyes.

“Joffrey,” she breathed out, her heart faltering at the mere thought of him.

Rage flashed in his eyes yet he drew her into a far more gentle kiss, treating her as if she was crafted from porcelain as he slowly turned them over until she was lying back on the bed. Sansa waited for panic to rise within her but it never came. Jon’s kisses put her at ease, soft and consuming as they were. Even when his fingers plucked at the ties of her smallclothes, she couldn’t bring herself to fear what may come next. Not when he’d shown her nothing but kindness.

Sansa felt warmth in her cheeks as he tossed them away, aware of what should come next from her septa’s teachings. All she could hope was that he didn’t make it too painful, letting her thighs open when he nudged at them gently. Yet he made no move to unlace his breeches, gazing down at her with wonder in his eyes. Then he kissed her, not on her lips but along her jawline, to her throat. Sansa gasped as he nipped at her pulse point and shivered when he traced his tongue over her collarbone.

When he dropped his head further, one hand coming up to cup at her breast, she felt as if her heart may well beat its way out of her chest. A whimper rose in her throat as he brushed his thumb over her nipple, the feeling sending sparks of hot pleasure through her. Sansa arched into his touch as he teased at the hardened peak with his finger thumb, rolling it gently. Only when she felt his hair brush her chest and the feeling of wet warmth surrounding the other nipple did she realize that he took it in his mouth.

Her moan filled the air, her hands twisting into the sheets beneath her. It felt like nothing she’d ever even imagined, even when Myranda explained different things to her in great detail. Sansa could have laid here forever, submitting herself to his ministrations, yet he seemed to have other things in mind. She gasped as he kissed his way lower, his tongue tracing her navel and his shoulders nudging her thighs further apart, his intent becoming quite clear.

“You can’t,” Sansa gasped, pushing up onto her elbows.

Jon met her gaze, looking positively indecent as he lowered himself to the bed between her legs.

“Why not?” he asked, the rough want in his voice thrilling to her ears.

“It’s not… not proper,” Sansa said.

He grinned at her, the first time she’d ever seen him truly smile. It took her breath away, how beautiful he looked in that moment, a mischievous shine in his eyes as a dimple formed in his cheek.

“I’m just going to give you a kiss,” he said, giving her a wink before ducking his head.

Sansa gasped aloud at the feeling of his lips upon her. True to his word, he pressed the gentlest of kisses over her sex. Only as he drew away did his tongue dart out, tracing her folds and drawing a cry from her as she scrambled for something to hold. His fingers parted her folds, leaving her helpless to his tongue as he dragged the flat of it along the length of her, culminating in a teasing flick over her clit. Sansa’s hips jumped at the pleasure that sparked through her and his free hand lifted to hold her down.

“Jon,” she whimpered, her hands lifting to delve into his hair.

As if she gave him an unspoken command with a single mention of his name, he turned to a man possessed between her thighs. His kisses grew frenzied, his tongue exploring her eagerly as he teased at her entrance and flicked it relentlessly over her cilt. Sansa’s lips formed a litany of cries and moans, his name and a few mentions of the gods filling the air as she arched into his mouth, her entire body trembling with need and pleasure. A hot coil formed in her lower belly as time went on, growing ever tighter as he licked, kissed, and nipped at her woman’s place.

“Gods, your cunt is so sweet,” Jon moaned, the vibrations of it making her shake.

Sansa whined at his words, unable to believe he’d spoken in such a way.

“Do you like that, sweet girl?” he asked, his voice dripping with need and satisfaction as he brushed his nose over her clit, making her twitch with desperation. “You like hearing me talk about your cunt?”

She didn’t answer with words, daringly pushing his face closer to her folds as he huffed out a low chuckle. Only then did he begin licking at her with a rewewed vigor. Sansa tensed for a single moment when she felt his finger tease at her entrance but forced herself to relax, earning a murmur of praise as he licked at her clit, slowly pressing his finger into her. It felt impossibly tight yet not altogether bad as he stroked his finger in and out of her as he continued licking at her eagerly.

Another finger joined it after a minute or so, taking up an even pace as he pursed his lips around her clit and sucked. Sansa felt something rising within her as she rocked her hips against his mouth, needing to reach for whatever it was. It seemed almost as if she was on the edge of something, ready to tip over into utter bliss. Jon hummed encouragingly, letting her move against his mouth as he curled his fingers within her.

“That’s it,” he said, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh. “Let go for me, Sansa.”

She let out a cry, her body growing taut as a bowstring as the coil in her belly clenched and then released, sending waves of pleasure through her. Sansa had no control over the sounds spilling from her mouth as he licked and sucked at her cunt through her peak, her hips working against his mouth as she tugged at his hair. Only when it became too much, her body shivering and twitching at his attentions, did she push at his shoulders weakly and fall back against the bed as he sat back on his heels.

Sansa lifting a shaking hand, pressing it to her forehead as her chest rose and fell quickly. She knew that she must look utterly debauched, with sweat clinging to her skin and her hair fanning out over the bed, as well as a rosy glow to her skin from how flushed she knew she was. Yet Jon looked entirely unbothered as she met his eyes. He licked at his lips before wiping his mouth with the back of her hand. She knew that he would taste of her yet pushed up all the same, seeking a kiss. Jon gave it to her all too willingly, licking deep into her mouth as she shuddered at the reminder of what he’d just done.

“Say it again,” Sansa said, pulling away from him to look into his eyes.

Jon tilted his head to the side questioningly, confused by the request.

“My name,” she clarified, her chest growing tight at the memory of her name on his lips.

His gaze grew tender as he brushed her hair away from her face.

“Sansa,” he said, affection clear in his voice as he pronounced it.

Sansa felt tears prick at her eyes and nearly scoffed at her own ridiculousness.

“It’s the first time you’ve said it,” she said, the weight of it very clear to her.

Jon gave her another smile, this one bringing a soft look to his eyes as he cradled her face gently and laid another kiss upon her lips.

“Sansa,” he said, moving his lips to brush her cheek.

“Sansa.”

He kissed her nose.

“Sansa.”

Her lips again.

“Sansa.”

Her eyelid.

“Sansa.”

Her forehead this time, drawing a giggle from her lips as she tossed her arms about his shoulders and drew him in for a deep kiss. As he laid her back on the bed, she felt a hardness pressing into her thigh and a surge of want rose within her. She didn’t even break away from the kiss, reaching down to pull at the ties on his breeches. Jon didn’t stop her, moaning against her lips as she tried to shove them down. When he pulled away to stand, Sansa pushed up on her elbows to watch as he shoved them down along with his smallclothes. Sansa felt the slightest traces of fear but did not let that stop her, reaching out for him as he climbed onto the bed once more.

“It will hurt a little,” he said in warning, brushing his fingers through her hair gently as he hovered over her. “But you must tell me if it’s too much.”

“Isn’t it supposed to hurt?” Sansa asked, her voice tinged with nerves.

“Not if I’m doing it right,” he said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled.

His thumb rubbed a gentle pattern over her thigh as he settled between her legs, guiding himself to her entrance. Yet he did nothing, meeting her eyes and waiting. Sansa knew that he wouldn’t do anything without her consent.

“Yes,” she said, pulling him down for a kiss.

Jon moaned against her lips, slowly pressing into her. Sansa felt a twinge of pain, inhaling sharply against his lips as her body adjusted to the feeling. It was overwhelming, how full he already felt within her. The pain increased only slightly as he filled her, inch-by-inch, stopping only when a tear slipped down her cheek.

“Sansa?” he breathed, his voice filled with both restraint and concern.

“It’s alright,” she said, her hands pressing over his back as she pulled away, nodding encouragingly. “Keep going.”

Though he looked hesitant, Jon slowly pushed into her as he watched her face. Sansa breathed out a sigh as he stilled and let his head fall, his hair covering his eyes.

“How does it feel?” she asked before she could manage to hold the words back, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment as he let out a small laugh.

Sansa only wanted to distract herself from the ache forming there and knew she’d never had the slightest clue how this felt for a man.

“Fucking incredible,” Jon said, her body warming at his words though her mother would gasp at the thought of anyone speaking that way. “So warm and tight and… gods, Sansa… you’re fucking… you’re amazing.”

She felt a sudden need for him to move, urging him to do so with her lips at his ear. It felt beyond anything she could describe, though the ache remained, having his body so close to hers. Joined with her, entangled in the most intimate of ways. Sansa felt more tears filling her eyes, spilling over as he slowly thrusted in and out of her. Jon nearly pulled out when he saw them but Sansa shook her head, grasping at him and wrapping her leg around his hips to keep him inside of her.

“It’s overwhelming,” she gasped, looking into his alarmed eyes. “I’m so glad that it’s you. Not… not any of _them_. Just you and me.”

Sansa cradled his face in her hands, a smile pulling at her lips. It felt odd, to smile in such a way after so long. Sansa had forgotten what true joy felt like yet she knew that it filled her chest now. Jon began moving once more at her nod, capturing her lips in a kiss as he rolled his hips, filling her again and again as she felt her need rise. Sansa felt as if she may not experience the earlier bliss once more yet he seemed determined to see it through again, reaching between them to rub his thumb over her clit.

Her cry was muffled by their kiss, one hand grasping at his hair as the other clutched at his back, her nails scraping over his skin. Jon’s pace grew quicker and more erratic, building to his own peak as he stroked her clit determinedly. Sansa felt the same heat rising within her, squeezing her eyes shut as she tossed her head against the mattress and felt his lips and teeth teasing over her throat and at her nipples. Light flashed behind her eyelids as she rocked in sync with him, their pace desperate as they chased their pleasure and urged the other onto their own.

It felt all the more intense, peaking with him inside of her. Sansa clenched down on his cock, his name a mantra on her lips as bliss rocked through her. It felt impossible that she had a single bit of pleasure left to feel but he wrung her of every single ounce of it, determined as he was. When he started to pull away, she somehow knew why, shaking her head as she clutched at him.

“It’s okay, Jon,” she said, kissing along his jaw and stroking his hair. “You can… inside…”

He groaned, pressing his lips to her shoulder as he thrusted into her desperately. When she felt him spill inside of her, Sansa knew that there were no words to describe it. She felt complete, in a way, as he rocked into her through his own peak. It took nearly a minute for him to stop, huffing hot breaths against her skin until he finally stilled, his forehead braced against her shoulder. Sansa felt as if she may never be able to walk again, a smile gracing her lips as he pulled away and rolled out of bed. She couldn’t even muster the urge to watch, only listening as he retrieved a cloth and wet it to clean them both.

Sansa finally pushed on her elbows, watching him tend to her gently as he swiped the cloth between her legs and over her thighs that were sticky with evidence of their coupling. There was only a bit of blood to be wiped away, the true proof of her maidenhead disappearing when he tossed the cloth into the fire to burn as well. Only then did he return to the bed, pulling her into his arms. Sansa laid her head over his chest, feeling altogether satisfied as their legs tangled.

“You are truly my husband now,” she said, her voice filled with wonder at the thought.

The ache between her thighs was proof enough of that.

“Aye, and you’re my wife,” Jon said, a smile forming on his lips as she lifted her head to look at him.

Sansa pressed a kiss over a scar on his chest, wondering where it came from but knowing that she could ask another time. Emotions welled within her, intense and nearly terrifying. She knew she could not bear to lose him. Not after tasting such a tender intimacy between them.

“Please do not ask me to leave you again,” she whispered, praying that he would heed her words. “I… I cannot bear the thought of it.”

His eyes grew solemn as he stared at her, twirling a lock of her hair around his finger.

“I won’t,” he said, lifting his other hand to brush his thumb over her cheek. “Never again.”

Satisfied, Sansa laid her head on his chest once more. It didn’t take long for exhaustion to set in, her limbs growing heavy and her eyes fluttering closed as he stroked nonsense patterns over her skin, lulling her off to sleep. It was impossible to know how much time passed before she woke to the feeling of his hand on her bare back, stroking over her spine as he pressed kisses to her shoulders. Sansa was lying on her stomach atop the mattress, blankets pulled to her hips to cover her. She let out a soft sigh, stretching her legs out only to wince lightly at the twinge of pain between her thighs.

“I’m sorry,” Jon said quietly, though there was no regret in his voice much to her relief.

“It’s alright,” Sansa said, a content smile pulling at her lips as she turned over to face him.

Desire flashed through his eyes at the sight of her bared to him once more but that was not what she noticed. He was fully clothed, right down to his boots and a cloak about his shoulders. Sansa sat up, confusion upon her face as she glanced at the window only to see that it was still dark.

“What’s going on?” she asked, pulling the covers to her chest as she felt far too exposed next to him.

Jon hesitated, his eyes flitting over her face.

“Do you trust me?” he asked.

The question struck at her, the weight of it so clear as it hung in the air between them. It was the struggle between them from the beginning. Now he asked outright and she had little choice but to confront it. To answer. Sansa’s lips parted as she felt her heart slowly pick up pace in her chest. Reaching up, she pressed her palm over his cheek and felt him tilt his face towards her touch, an intense feeling of affection rising within her.

“Yes.”

Though she whispered the word, it filled the air as if she’d shouted it to the sky. Jon looked utterly relieved, pressing a quick kiss to her lips before moving away. Sansa watched with wide eyes as he gathered a bundle of clothes in his hands, passing it over to her.

“Put this on,” he said.

A cursory glance told her that she held a pair of breeches and a tunic as well as clean smallclothes that belonged to her. Sansa gave him a wide-eyed look but he simply nodded at her before turning away. Sansa slowly climbed from the bed, every part of her body aching at their activities as she clumsily stepped into the breeches and tugged the tunic over her head. When he returned, Jon held her riding boots as well as a leather jerkin much smaller than any he owned. If she had to guess, it either belonged to a squire or another woman within the castle.

Sansa donned it all without complaint, a thousand questions flooding her mind. She didn’t even have time to deal with her hair, leaving it tumbling about her shoulders in copper waves as Jon secured a familiar cloak around her shoulders. The cloak he’d given to her when they wed, a representation of the vows he took. Sansa’s face must have betrayed the fear and apprehension she felt because he paused for a moment once he clasped the cloak, cradling her face gently as he brushed a softer kiss over her lips.

“Don’t worry, Sansa,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers. “I’ll keep you safe.”

She let her eyes fall closed, leaning into him.

“I know.”

Her faith came without hesitation. Sansa trusted that he was true to his word. As he took her hand, she let him weave their fingers and tug her from the bedchamber. Though he did not say it, she knew that they had to be as quiet as possible, keeping her footsteps near silent as she let him lead her through the outer chamber. Her eyes caught upon a piece of folded parchment upon his table, lit up by the moonlight with his writing upon the paper. There was little doubt in her mind who the letter was addressed to, though she had no idea what words awaited Daenerys when the letter was inevitably delivered to her hands.

They crept through the Red Keep like twin shadows, somehow avoiding the attention of every guard that they passed. Sansa knew that Jon had been raised to be a perfect warrior in every way yet it caught her off-guard to witness his learnings, knowing that they did not come without pain. Sansa thought she knew the keep well but it was nothing compared to his knowledge, which must have been gathered every day since he came to King’s Landing. Somehow, he managed to land them outside of the castle walls without passing through a single known gate.

Even more strangely, his horse awaited them in a nearby street, watched by an adolescent boy who eagerly accepted a few gold coins from Jon’s pocket before disappearing into the night without another word. Jon checked the saddle and pulled a long piece of leather from one of the bags, turning towards her to tie it about her waist. Once he produced her dagger, though she had no idea how he managed to procure it, she understood that it was a sword belt meant to hold the blade near so that she could pull it out if necessary.

“Jon,” Sansa whispered, fear tinging her voice as she reached up to take his hand. “What are we doing?”

He met her gaze after a moment, an intense look in his eyes.

“I promised that you would not leave without me,” he said simply.

Sansa understood, her breath catching in her throat as he mounted the horse. Much like the day of their wedding, Jon looked down at her and held out his hand in offering, giving her every chance to refuse. Sansa wouldn’t think of it, slipping her hand into his and allowing him to pull her up. Jon’s arms wrapped around her as she leaned into his chest without a second thought. His hands gripped the reins as he kicked at the horse, urging it to move into a flat run through the streets.

Though she did not know where they were going, Sansa trusted that he would keep them safe. The tension in her shoulders eased as they moved through the city, passing manses and shops and street after street until they flew through an open gate. To her utter surprise, he drew up short just outside of the city walls, squeezing his arm around her and pressing a kiss to her temple as if he couldn’t quite resist before dismounting. He dropped to the ground before holding his hands up to her.

Sansa let him help her down, her breaths coming out in rapid bursts as he smacked the horse’s flank and sent it running away. She leaned into him as he looked up to the sky expectantly. It didn’t take long for her to figure out what he waited for, the woosh of air above them too suspect to be the wind alone. A low rumble echoed around them as a winged shadow dropped before them, shaking the ground around them as she muffled a cry of shock, staggering away with wide eyes.

He didn’t look scared at all, stepping forward with his hand outstretched. The dragon hunched to the ground, sniffing at him as Sansa edged away. She watched as Jon brushed a hand over the scales, unable to discern the color with the darkness that surrounded them. Sansa remembered Daenerys telling her the name of his dragon. Rhaegal, undoubtedly named for his father. Jon smiled as the dragon all but nuzzled against his hand, clearly bonded together. Sansa wasn’t quite so certain that she’d be welcomed as warmly, yet he reached back in search of her hand. As she stepped forward, Rhaegal’s eyes moved to her and watched as she took Jon’s hand and let him draw her closer to him once more.

“He won’t hurt you while I’m here.”

He led Sansa around to the side of the dragon and she watched Rhaegal shift around until his wing was pressed to the ground, giving them a means to climb up onto his back. Jon moved forward first, beckoning for her to follow as he climbed. Sansa felt clumsy, shocked at the heat emanating from the beast even though she knew it made sense. Jon turned to pull her up with him as he straddled the dragon just behind his neck. Sansa let out a soft laugh of disbelief as she sat just behind him.

“I’m on a dragon,” Sansa said, a smile pulling at her lips. “I can’t believe I’m on a real dragon.”

Jon tilted his head towards her, amusement written across his face.

“Just wait,” he murmured.

Sansa leaned forward to kiss him lightly, unable to quite resist.

“Where are we going?” she asked, wrapping her arms around him.

“The North,” he said, brushing his hand over hers.

Sansa’s heart leapt in her chest and she couldn’t quite believe it.

“I’m taking you home.”

As if Jon's words were enough, Rhaegal's wings outstretched and he took off into the sky, carrying them away from King's Landing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last time, I'd love to hear what you think!


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